Episode Two: Farscape Blind Icarus, Eclipse
by Errationatus
Summary: Part Two of the Blind Icarus tale.
1. Chapter 1

Previously, on _Farscape_:

_Having found the dying Leviathan Elack, who consents to a harvest of neural grafts for Talyn, Crais and the Kia'Baa'ri __Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi_ _and her team have done just that. A run-in with bounty hunters forces the team to leave, leaving Crais_ _behind, with the bounty hunters scouring the ship looking for him. In the Commerce System of Ej'djem Reach, Chiana has been "bought" by an Ashkelon Warlord, and Jool is confronted by the husband she abandoned 24 cycles previously. Crichton and Miriya have come to Davros at D'Argo's request, but things aren't quite what they seem…_

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**AND NOW, ON FARSCAPE: FREEBOOTER:**

**BLIND ICARUS**

**ECLIPSE**

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_There you are, my friends! - Alas, so I am not the man,  
not the one you're looking for?  
You hesitate, surprised! - Ah, your anger would be better!  
Am I no more the one? A changed hand, pace, and face?  
And what am I - for you, friends am I not the one?_

- **Friedrich Nietzsche, **

_**Out of the High Mountains, AFTERSONG.**_

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**MIRIYA BREANNADOS WATCHED TRAFFIC CONTROL DRONES FLIT PAST HER SHIP.**

She'd been here before, certainly, but she had forgotten the place was _this_ thick with vehicles. As they had entered the orbital plane of Davros, her sensors had registered _thousands_ of ships and _tens_ of thousands of drones. For some reason she could never quite fathom, she _hated_ the things. The drones just rode on her nerves. Perhaps it was some dread of a collision, the look of sheer chaos or the seeming randomness of their flights – well, she could never quite put her finger on it.

They managed the inner orbital docks without incident, however, to find Moya still docked, Pilot informing them that he had not heard from D'Argo or the others since being asked to call for Crichton, but he knew their last location, which he dutifully relayed. He'd tried comming them, but with little success. Crichton told Pilot that he'd deal with it, and for Pilot to ready Moya for her return to Abbanerex – preferably at a moment's notice.

"Let's check the local nets before we go anywhere," Crichton told her before they found a berth of their own.

"Why?" She asked, indicating her comm array. "I can't stay hanging out here for long." He sat, started cycling.

"Just a hunch." He found a local station, listened. It was mostly just endless advertisements. Davros was, after all, basically a planet-sized shopping mall. She watched him, saw him starting to tune _out_ of the local bands, and was surprised to see him cycling higher – into frequencies he _shouldn't_ have known about. He'd stop on certain ones, listen, then proceed on. Miriya found herself reassessing him as he sat there. This was completely unexpected.

He was tapping into relayed frequencies, higher and more encrypted ones, Peacekeeper Captain-level codes and High Command channels. They were older ones, but they were valid ones. After a few moments, he flicked the array off, directed her to dock. He had stopped at no one frequency for more than a half-a-dozen microts, and Miriya was completely mystified.

"Why did you do that?" She asked, as _The Edge_ came to a stop.

"Do what?" She indicated her comm array. "Oh, just to see what was available."

"That's just odd, John."

Crichton shrugged, got up, did a quick check on himself, nodded slightly, went aft pulling his gloves on.

"Shall we?"

Miriya negotiated for privileges, got them, and locked _The Edge_ down, followed him. He stepped out and into the promenade of the orbital station, acting for all the worlds like he was simply a tourist come for shopping – even though he looked nothing like one, all leather and weapons. He reached over, put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her to him and drew her into the crowd alongside him.

"Remember where we parked." He quipped as they proceeded along. After a few moments she put her arm around his waist. It was less awkward walking that way, but not by much.

"So," he asked, conversationally, by her ear. "How many bounty hunters do you think are in this system?"

Equally conversationally, Miriya replied, tucking her hip next to his trying to match the cadence of his stride. Once she had, however, walking with his arm around her was rather… unexpectedly pleasant.

"Hundreds, easily. This is a prime hunting ground. There are millions of people here, and it's a good place to hide amongst a crowd – if you need to, I suppose." Crichton pursed his lips and nodded.

"You're probably right. We need to get to the surface."

"There should be transports going every few hundred microts."

"Where?" She pointed, and he led the way. This arms-around thing, she realized, was also advantageous in a crowd like this. Neither of them would lose the other.

They managed the transport tier, were unceremoniously stuffed into a shuttle, and crushed face-to-face in the press of bodies. Miriya simply stepped into him, wrapped her arms around his midsection, pulled herself close.

"Not _too_ terribly inconvenient." She smirked up at him. That dry smirk of his came back, and he went back to scanning the crowd. She also noticed that there was an ever-so-slight space around Crichton and herself – and thought it was that either Sebaceans weren't liked much here, or it was some revulsion for Peacekeepers. She figured it was probably the latter. This _was_ Ashkelon territory, after all. He also, she noted absently, never took a hand far from one of his pistols.

The shuttle finally landed, and the gush from the ship was like a relief – only to be quashed by the literal sea of bodies before them. Crichton shook his head, and Miriya took his hand this time. He glanced down at her as she did.

"Ten times the bodies, ten times the likelihood of getting lost." Was all she said. He nodded, didn't argue, but switched her to his left, pulled her to that side. He reached up, hit his comm as they proceed through the crowd.

"D. Jool. Buckwheat." Then waited. After a few moments, there was a hesitant voice on the other end – and not one Crichton knew.

"_Hello_?" A pause. "_Are you receiving me_?"

"And you are?"

"_I was left this comm by a Ka'D'Argo with instructions to speak to whomever called on it."_

"Speak, then."

There was a muttered, "_This is ridiculous…" _then the voice said, louder, "_Who was the partner of Abbot_?"

Crichton grinned to himself, shook his head in bemusement.

"Costello."

Silence.

"_Very well. Come to the Commissary Annex. I am at a small eatery called Rev'brannik's_." Another pause. "_I will wait half-an-arn. No longer_."

"Fine. Rev'brannik's. As soon as. How will I know you?"

"_I will be the only Interion with a Qualta Blade_."

Crichton cut the comm, looked at Miriya, who was already pointing the direction to a small information kiosk.

"That was strange," She told him as they proceeded along.

"That depends," Crichton answered her, "Why D would give up his blade…" and said nothing else until they reached the Commissary Annex.

"Rev'brannik's?" He asked. "I don't read the local lingo so well." Miriya led him to a stand-up map, scanned it briefly, pointed to a large red square.

"That's it, there." She checked it against the green dot with the stylized arrow he assumed was the local equivalent of the 'You are here' indicator. "It's not too far off."

They arrived, just as an Interion was leaving, and Crichton intercepted him before he got too far. True to his word, he was carrying a Luxan Qualta Blade.

"I'll take that," Crichton told him, stopping him. The Interion looked him over, seemed to match him with whatever D'Argo had told him in his head, nodded, and handed the blade over.

"I am Evigan Koiban." He said, after a moment. Crichton nodded, indicated that they should all sit back down, which they did.

"You're Jool's husband?" Miriya asked. He nodded. "Well, she has _some_ taste, at least."

He nodded again. "Thank you. I assure you, however, she married me simply as a means to an end."

"That sounds like marriage, all right. Wanna explain what happened?" Crichton waved the waiter away, but Miriya ordered a drink.

"Your Nebari friend was bought by the local warlord for his seraglio, and your other friends went to negotiate for her release. After a fashion."

Crichton shook his head in dismay, sighed.

"Chi's not going to sit still for that for long," he said, mind turning round a few times.

"…and I doubt the Warlord will negotiate for anything," Miriya added. "He's _unbelievably_ wealthy. You guys have absolutely nothing he'd want."

Crichton was looking at Koiban.

"How'd you get involved in this?"

"As I said, I'm Joolushko's husband…"

"Do I look stupid?" Crichton asked him, hard-voiced. Koiban blinked, and Miriya sighed.

"What? No, of course not, I…" Koiban began, but was cut off.

"D'Argo doesn't just hand his Qualta over." There was a pulse pistol abruptly in Koiban's face. "You work for this Warlord asshole?"

Again, Koiban blinked, and there was the scrape of a few chairs from people around them who had overheard the disparagement.

"Periodically." Koiban was rather calm. He'd learned patience on some rather tough battlefields. "I work for him via contract," he began explaining, as if to the slow-witted. "I'm not on any payroll and I don't answer to him. He needs me, not the reverse."

"You've got guts." Crichton told him. The pulse pistol went away.

"Yes, and I rather like them on the inside of me. I've told you the truth. Make of it what you will."

"How do I contact this…"

"D'Strand'm'tah." Miriya provided, and he nodded in thanks.

"…and talk some sense into him?"

"He lives on his own moon, which he calls 'Sanctuary'. No one goes there unless he wants them there. Or you get his attention." Koiban informed him. "The former can be quite profitable and advantageous – on most occasions, but the latter is usually not a very good idea."

Crichton opened his mouth to say something, but Miriya stopped him.

"I haven't got my drink yet, John." Crichton looked at her, annoyed.

"So?"

"So there aren't _any_ staff anywhere in this café." Miriya answered, waving a finger across the table. Crichton quickly surveyed the area. Patrons, he realized, had begun a slow trickling out, as well.

"Okay… what the hell….?"

Koiban looked the other way. "Excuse me," he pointed over Crichton's shoulder, at three figures in long dark cloaks. "But do you know these?"

Crichton managed a short sharp "_frell!_", shoved Miriya out of the way, and was diving for cover himself when Rev'brannik's suddenly exploded into screams and chaos.

* * *

**CRAIS WATCHED THE INVIDID GO BY, SLOW, CIRCLE BACK.**

_Dren _– had he been spotted? He pressed himself deeper into the duct, cursed. Up the corridor, he heard a popping, grinding sound, then a crack and a gush of blue steam erupted into the corridor, billowed past. He sniffed, realized with a spike of dread what it was – _edresin_, the catalyst for Elack's fluidic circulatory systems. If he lost too much - his 'blood', as it were would begin to gel, and death would not be far behind. On the plus side - if there were such a thing in this situation - the clouds of it would hopefully make the Invidid's search that much harder.

Elack was definitely in his last stages. He'd stayed in the Nexus to cover the tech team's escape, just in case, and the tier he'd been on had begun to depressurize. He'd barely managed to make it through the ductwork and into a lower tier before it went completely. Fortunately, many of Elack's autonomic systems were still functioning and bulkheads had closed, stopped the depressurization from spreading – at least for now.

Elack rumbled, suffered another long slow shudder. Crais glanced out into the corridor, saw the Invidid still there, but now it had been joined by someone else – another bounty hunter he assumed. They did not look like they liked one another. The newcomer was Insectoid, slightly taller, slimmer than the Invidid, but covered in a solid, faceted carapace, the edges of which were clearly sharpened. Part of its carapace formed a shield over its head. He heard the Insectoid hiss.

"Invidid… go your way. You have failed. I shall take this Peacekeeper scum." The voice was sibilant, but sharp.

"The prize to the strongest. Interfere not, or we will forget our directives."

"I offer you only this chance."

"Worthless you are, Hafta'lal'ta, to kill only."

"Your others have failed. Go now. No more warnings."

Crais saw the Invidid raise its weapon. This Hafta'lal'ta bristled, carapace shuddering in anger.

"All are contracted! We hunt for same."

"No. _Die_."

The Invidid managed one shot before it was diced by the razor-edged carapace. Its globular armor popped like multiple balloons, eliciting a gurgling scream. The Insectoid grunted, collapsed to one knee. The Invidid's shot had hit him. Crais held his breath. The Invidid was down, but the Insectoid was still moving. It shook itself, rose.

Crais waited a while longer, watched it as it stepped out of the blue haze left by the edresin, looked at the Invidid, then went to it

The Invidid gurgled. Crais knew that the Invidid was not actually _one_ creature, but a colony of creatures, with a collective consciousness. The one he had managed to incapacitate earlier was probably reincorporated into its 'brother' here.

It, however, was in no shape to offer much in the way of resistance. It had been hit by multiple strikes, and its armor was useless. Without it, it was nothing more than 'blue goo'.

"Invidid…you _are_ resilient. I shall have to kill the rest of you."

Hafta'lal'ta pulled a small bottle of something from its belt, uncapped it, poured a small measure into one of the slashed globes. There was a gurgling moan from the Invidid, and anywhere blue that Crais could see began to go black. It was obviously some kind of poison. Hafta'lal'ta stood, replaced the bottle, watched the Invidid die. Then it went silently down the corridor, past Crais' hiding place, soon vanishing around the turn in the corridor.

Frell. There was one less, at least, and unfortunately, Crais knew the name of _Hafta'lal'ta_. The Insectoid was a vicious, relentless killer. It had absolutely no ethical scruples that he'd ever heard. Males, females, offspring - of any age - it would kill with relish. The Peacekeeper bounty on Hafta'lal'ta's head was even higher than Crichton's, although they didn't put themselves out trying to capture him. They _employed_ him more often than not.

Crais climbed back into the ductwork, heading for'ard. He wanted to be far away from the hunting killer before he tried sleeping.

He reached a space further down along, with a shaft that had once held conduits, but had long since disintegrated due to Elack's age. The shaft went _down_ for a considerable distance. Crais looked at it, looked back up the corridor. He was near the rear of the Leviathan, only a tier or two away from Elack's long-dormant propulser systems.

He climbed down the shaft, found a spot, backed into a space between the support struts. From here he could not be seen, and the alloys in the conduit around him should mask any scans. There was only one way in, and he could see anyone coming long before they reached him. Crais got as comfortable as he could, closed his eyes.

He was abruptly snapped awake as he heard a soft clicking chitter come up the corridor above him, pressed himself back deeper into the pipes. A few moments later, the form of the Insectoid stepped cautiously around the space, and Crais held his breath. It slowly made its way around the hole in the floor, peering into the shaft, scanning the walls. The armored head appeared to look directly at his space.

"I smell… I _smell_ you, Crais…" it hissed. He sighed internally. Of _course_ it did. So far, however, smelling was not seeing.

"Surrender. There is no bounty for you dead. No reason for you to die."

There were the sounds of footsteps from the corridor up ahead and Crais cursed silently to himself. Hafta'lal'ta's attention immediately turned to it. Elack shuddered again, harder than the last time, vibrating hard down his length, throwing Hafta'lal'ta off-balance. Whomever was up there with the Insectoid was also thrown off-balance, for the shot that Crais could see was meant for Hafta'lal'ta went wildly off to the side. It clattered in anger, leapt out of Crais' sight, and he chose that moment to dive from his space, dropped further down the shaft, landing with a solid _thunk_ on the floor below, and felt something in his knee give. There was another shot from above, and Crais heard a sharp short scream and then something bounced off the wall of the shaft, falling. Crais managed to move out of the way as the body of one of Muukarhi's techs landed with a sodden, sickening crunch where he'd just been standing.

An angry chatter followed it down, and the Insectoid clattered away.

Crais looked over the tech, wondering why he'd remained. He gathered up the pulse pistol the tech had carried down with him. Another would always be useful.

"Thank you." He told the dead. "It seems you proved a fortuitous distraction. Unfortunate, but true."

Crais tested his knee, cursed as pain lanced up his leg, felt it. His kneecap. He'd popped his kneecap. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed it, bore down on it, heard it pop, felt hot pain sear. He held his breath, waited until it passed, gingerly put his weight on it.

It would have to do.

He climbed back up to his space, pulled his ration pack from it, slung it, climbed back down. It took him longer than he would have liked.

In the corridor, he checked his guns.

So far, so good.

He was close to where the bounty hunters would have moored their ships. He was unfamiliar with Invidid technology, but if it flew, he'd figure it out.

Steal a ship, return to Abbanerex, hope the Insectoid didn't manage to follow. Simple plan. Very simple.

Those were, naturally, the ones that frelled up the worst.

* * *

**CHIANA PACED AROUND HER 'CELL', STILL TINKED.**

It wasn't as remotely ostentatious as the room she'd been dumped in arns earlier. It was much smaller, but comfortable, decorated with taste. It also had an irate Luxan, a piqued Interion and a sleeping Hynerian in it. D'Argo had spent the last half-arn picking at the lock on the door, but she'd already told him it was impossible to pick. She'd tried.

"_Leave_ it!" she told him, exasperated. "It's a 18-level tumbler system with torsion-sensitive sensor layers in it! They're impossible to pick with _specialized_ lockpicks, let alone you poking at it with those big Luxan paws."

D'Argo cursed, stood, slammed his palm against the door. It didn't even rattle. It galled him that he'd walked into this trap so readily.

"It's all so ridiculous," he growled. "He buys you, kidnaps us, yet treats you like a queen and has the money he paid for you sent to Moya." He shook his head. "It makes not one erg of sense."

"What do you want?" Chiana replied. "Dank dungeons and torture?"

"_That_ would make more sense."

"Don't be ridiculous." Rygel said, rising from a pile of pillows and calling his sled. "Look – as a non-Hynerian you're not completely repulsive - but I simply don't see the need to _buy_ you. _Especially_ you." She crossed her arms, glared at the Dominar. "But if this Warlord _is_ as stupid as to waste the kind of money on you he obviously has, he should be easy to deal with – provided we can get out of here and past those guards of his."

"Constables." D'Argo told him.

"Who cares?" Rygel hopped on his sled, got comfortable, floated toward the table in the centre of the room and the food thereon. "We still need to get by them. Not so easy. Perhaps we should have _listened_ to this D'Strand'm'tah instead of insulting him." He turned a glare to D'Argo which D'Argo ignored.

"He wanted us to lure Crichton here!"

"Of course he did! Crichton will come _anyway_!" Rygel countered. "What did you think? This D'Strand'm'tah wants him for the _bounty_? He's got more personal wealth than _half my empire's yearly tax revenue_! He's probably one of the single richest sentients alive! _He doesn't need any frelling bounty_!"

"He – what?" D'Argo looked confused for a moment, trying to imagine such immense wealth, and that one person could possess it.

"Some Captain you are." Rygel growled, although he knew enough to stay out of arm's reach. "Did it not occur to you that it _could_ have been a straight business proposition?"

"But why _buy_ Chiana? There are easier ways to get our attention."

Rygel sighed, the sigh of someone who thought he was trying to explain something fundamental to a hopeless simpleton.

"He has rules, too, D'Argo. I know something of these Ashkelons. He's a powerful warlord, yes, but he's not the _only_ one. They have families, clans, affiliations, and Houses. Even with his wealth, he's accountable. He has enemies. Like any Imperium, jockeying for power and position is a delicate balancing act. For whatever reason, something has upset that balance, and he has to maintain his face; if I'm correct in this – and I usually am – this D'Strand'm'tah has been trying to go legitimate for quite some time – present a respectable façade. Obviously something dire has occurred for him to act in _this_ manner. If you had been less Luxan and more civilized, we could have just _asked_ him."

"_You still can_." A voice said, with a hint of amusement. On the far wall, a large monitor lit up. D'Strand'm'tah smiled at them from it. Astute silver eyes regarded them with confidence and surety. "_Well-reasoned, Dominar_." Rygel snorted in pleasure. "_You are correct – in summary, if not particulars_."

"What _do_ you want?" Chiana snapped. Jool shot her a look of _Maybe you shouldn't tick this guy off_', which was ignored.

"_Dominar Rygel is right, Chiana. You were bought as a gesture, not as an acquisition."_

"A gesture for whom?" D'Argo asked.

"_My fellow Warlords of course. A common enough transaction without a trace of suspicion about it. 'An exotic toy'. Now that you've had time to think about it, I'm sure we can discuss this. Yes?"_

"Very well," Rygel said, and D'Argo nodded. Behind them, the door opened.

"_Follow my guards, if you would_." Outside waited two of the large Constables. The Moyans were led to a central room, large, airy and tastefully appointed, golden sunlight streaming through cathedral-like windows, from which fluttered iridescent silken curtains. The air was warm and scented pleasantly. D'Strand'm'tah sat at a large dark onyx table, but rose and gestured for them to sit as they entered. He was tall and well-built, the kind of well-built one acquired in spas and well-appointed gymnasiums. He waved his Constables behind him, where they seemed to meld into the décor and vanish. Servants appeared with food and drink.

Without preamble, D'Strand'm'tah began.

"I'm not a man given to asking for anything, but I'm no tyrant, nor a thief."

He saw the skepticism on their faces, smiled.

"Yes, I _am_ Ashkelon. Yes, I_ am _a warlord, and yes, most of my business practices are less than legitimate. The Dominar was correct – I _do_ wish to become respectable, as it were. Much of the wealth I have gained illicitly I have funneled into legitimate business ventures – and they generate far more revenue than my illegal activities."

"The curse of any criminal cartel." Rygel said dryly, to which D'Strand'm'tah simply nodded.

"Indeed. Particularly when large and powerful facets of that cartel do not share your outlook."

"Cut to the chase." Chiana barked, getting a sharp look from D'Argo. She smiled and shrugged. D'Strand'm'tah merely chuckled.

"In the Meticulous Spiral – a system that borders my own – lives and reigns one Strad'ail'leevis, and whereas my domination of this system is based on financial concerns, he is more …traditional – intimidation, murder, graft and corruption. He's quite good at it. He has a rather well-equipped army at his command, and excellent spies." His face darkened. "And kidnappers."

He snapped his fingers and a servant hurried over with a sheaf of papers. D'Strand'm'tah scattered them across the table at the Moyans.

They were photographs, flat crisp images of a very attractive woman, and three children – all girls, all which bore resemblances to the woman – and D'Strand'm'tah, they realized.

"My wife, my children."

D'Argo looked at the woman in the photos. Her gaze was open, warm and friendly, her eyes a soft turquoise and her face softly round under luminous waves of deep-orange hair.

"They've been kidnapped by Strad'ail'leevis." D'Argo said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes." He took the photo from D'Argo, gazed at it, his features softening. D'Argo could see real depth of feeling there. D'Strand'm'tah obviously adored her.

"My Rial. Seri'a, Lor'rea, D'sarri. They are my only reasons for living, my only reasons for life."

"But you have dozens of other females…" Rygel began and D'Strand'm'tah looked at him sharply.

"Hynerian… of course. No, they are a Harem only for appearance's sake. They are game pieces. Some there to deny them to my enemies, some as levers, some as potential rewards, some as hostages. They do not interest me past those functions." He looked over at Chiana with a rueful smile. "_You_ are a hostage. No offence meant." Chiana rolled her eyes with a "humph!" and crossed her arms.

"What do you want from us?" Jool asked. "We're not commandos."

"No, but you _are_ famous. John Crichton and his friends. Legendary, even."

"_Crazy_ enough to go after them for a substantial payment?" Chiana chimed. "And me as a hostage in case they refuse." D'Strand'm'tah nodded.

"Naturally, it is not _called_ a 'kidnapping'. Strad'ail'leevis has simply 'requested' their presence at his palace. We both know what it is of course. Rial is a relation by marriage only, but it is not uncommon for extended family to have an extended stay at a relative's."

"Why did he kidnap them? Does he want money, territory?"

"Neither. I have his mistress in my Harem. You may have met her, Chiana. Be'bari'a." Chiana indicated that she did. "She, however, _wants_ to be here. Strad'ail'leevis had planned on using her as a payment for a service a Peacekeeper Captain had done him some time ago. She came here and asked for asylum."

D'Strand'm'tah took a pull from a tall glass at his elbow. "It was a calculated risk, but I knew he would do little overtly. He had apparently managed to replace the pilot of my wife's personal transport with a Chemari." At the puzzled looks, he explained, "They are genetically-engineered chameleonic lifeforms. A specialty of his scientists."

D'Strand'm'tah indicated the table before him. It lit up. On it was a starchart, an image of several planets. Glowing behind it all was a purple spiral nebula.

"The Meticulous Spiral. The green world is called 'Morning's Bounty'. It is his prison world. The blue world – 'Azure Meanings' - is his fortress. It is an ice world, and his palace is several metras beneath its surface." Both worlds were ringed with formidable defences – and ships.

"Interesting names for the place."

"He thinks he's being ironic," D'Strand'm'tah grimaced. "I will equip you with whatever supplies you think you will need to retrieve them. At last reports, they were being kept on Morning's Bounty. As they are all females, he threatens to throw them into the prison population if I do not comply."

"For his mistress." Jool muttered as if she didn't believe any of it. "One he didn't want anyway."

"It is all about form and appearances." D'Strand'm'tah sighed. "Stupid traditions, but traditions nonetheless."

"Look, I got a glimpse of some of _your_ fleet when we were brought here – why don't you just storm the place and get them back?" D'Argo asked.

"Again – traditions. As warlords, we may undercut one another, we may war with each other economically, with spies, with saboteurs, with any and all devious plots – short of real war or murder of the other. No Ashkelon has ever warred on another with soldiers and fleets, and I shall not be the first to break this ancient rule." D'Strand'm'tah rose, paced as he spoke. Rygel, perhaps not too surprisingly, made the leap.

"Ashkelon… you're all _one_ family, aren't you? Literally. You're all relations – in one way or another."

"Again, well-reasoned, Dominar. Yes, we are all one family, through marriage mostly nowadays. Our soldiers, our armies, our administrators the V'rahn, all created by our scientists. All Warlords are related, by blood, and bonds deeper than blood. We are members of an ancient family. Strad'ail'leevis is a cousin, a second cousin."

"How many true Ashkelon are there?" Rygel asked.

"About one hundred, depending." The Warlord answered, returning to his seat, pouring himself a drink. "I have brothers and sisters who are Warlords in their own rights, and some who are not." He sighed. "We may undermine each other to the point of poverty, strip each other of everything but our lives, but we cannot kill one another, we cannot make overt war, or conquer each other's dominions via naked force. The Ashkelon endure, even if individual Warlords do not. It is not, I admit, the ideal exemplar of the term 'family'." He smiled an ironic smile at that, shook his head. "But it is the way it is, and it has endured for thousands of cycles." He eyed Jool. "May I ask why you were seeking out my physician?"

"You mean Koiban?" Jool looked startled. D'Strand'm'tah nodded. "Uh… he's my husband."

D'Strand'm'tah laughed. "So _you_ are the infamous Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis."

"Yes, but I don't think 'infamous' is the right…"

"Navria called you a _whore, _Jool." Chiana quipped. "Which would you prefer?"

Jool just rolled her eyes, and sulked.

"Look – we're not in this kind of business." D'Argo brought them back to the moment. "Our ship – our _Leviathan_ - is scheduled for an extensive refit at Abbanerex. We're already overdue as it is."

"I have no one else. I haven't the time. Your reputation says you can do this."

"What reputation?" Jool blurted, exasperated.

"_What_ reputation?" D'Strand'm'tah said, incredulous. "John Crichton and his friends – spike in the Peacekeepers' side, destroyers of Nebari battalions, of Gammak bases – and _Scorpius'_ Gammak base no less – the looting and destruction of _Natiria's_ Shadow Depository - and the destruction of a Scarran Dreadnought! Half the systems on the Rim closed down because they thought the Scarrans would launch a pre-emptive strike shortly afterward! It is said that Crichton destroyed it _single-handedly_ – and could do the same to their planets."

"Oh. _That_ reputation," Chiana sighed. Frell.

"As I said, I will supply you with whatever you need. I will also see to it that your Leviathans receive any care they require." D'Strand'm'tah paced. "If you succeed, you may ask for anything in payment – _and_ I will give you this – " he snapped his fingers and the servant laid something in his hand. He held it up. "An Ashkelon Ward of Passage. With this you may pass freely through any territory a Warlord controls. Even Peacekeepers will not follow you through our dominions. Even Strad'ail'leevis would honor this. You will have safe haven in any territory an Ashkelon controls."

D'Argo looked at his friends, saw Chiana nod, Rygel thoughtful and Jool look confused. Safe haven was attractive in itself. As D'Strand'm'tah was no doubt aware.

"I'd have to contact Crichton. You took our comms."

Even as D'Argo said it, a V'rahn suddenly appeared, hurried to D'Strand'm'tah, began whispering in his ear. A few moments later, D'Strand'm'tah turned with a smile.

"No need. He's already on Davros."

* * *

**CRAIS WAS JUST ABOUT TO SET UP AN AMBUSH ON THE INSECTOID WHEN ELACK DIED.**

There was a great shuddering groan, and the ship rolled. Systems started simultaneously failing all over the Leviathan. Doors began to slam open and shut, some locking tight, some slamming open. Some doors led to the unpressurized Hammonside of Elack, causing entire tiers to blow out. Power failed by sections, moving down from his front to the rear, and darkness fell. The only light cast came from a faintly florescent glow on the walls, which bathed the corridors in an eerie gold light.

To Crais' great and everlasting surprise, _Shee'ladahalia Muukarhi _suddenly appeared in the conduit opposite him, extricating herself with grace.

"Well. That is that." She said in way of greeting. "We have approximately 2 arns before the gravity cuts out." Muukarhi said, getting her bearings. She'd been crawling through those ducts for what seemed like days.

"It should be very interesting attempting to get around this ship at that point." Crais said, still surprised.

"Aren't Peacekeepers trained to move in weightless conditions?" Muukarhi was closely watching the corridor ahead of them.

"Certainly. In these confines, however, it will make moving about hazardous. Especially if we must fight."

Muukarhi tightened a buckle on her uniform, stretched.

"Well, then – we'd best proceed."

"What are you doing here?" He finally managed to ask. "I told you to return to Abbanerex."

"I don't take your orders, Crais. One of my techs fell behind and we couldn't wait. I stayed behind as the _Twixt Far Stars_ left. They will send word as to our situation to Abbanerex and the local authorities. We merely need hold out until then."

"Not so easy." Crais told her. He nodded up the corridor where a shape could be seen approaching. Handed her the tech's pistol. Suddenly a piercing hiss sliced through the air, followed by shots zipping past them, ricocheting through the corridor. Crais snapped off a few shots as Muukarhi dove for the floor. The shape dodged, but kept coming. Muukarhi fired from the floor, coming nowhere near the Insectoid, but she too forced it to dodge, and straight into Crais' incoming fire. Hafta'lal'ta grunted, fell back, but immediately rose, snapping an arm up, loosing another volley of pulse blasts, this time in Crais' direction. He grunted, rolled back across the floor toward Muukarhi. Muukarhi glanced up to see Crais holding his smoking left arm.

"Damaged?"

"No." Crais lied. He fired up the corridor again, this time hitting the bounty hunter in the leg. Hafta'lal'ta chittered, went down, but once again immediately rose, fired off another volley. Crais ducked between wall-ribs as a multitude of shots clattered around him. Chunks of wall were skittering off the floor and walls, sharp shards that Crais flinched at as they went by him. One large piece fell practically at his feet, and he was suddenly struck by an idea.

He sucked in a deep breath, tensed, grabbed the shard and then hurled himself up the corridor, slamming into Hafta'lal'ta as hard as he could, just as the Insectoid closed on Muukarhi. Both went down in a jangle and for a moment, Crais cursed, for the Insectoid easily had five times his strength, felt the pincers of the insect lock on him and start to dig in with terrific force, before Hafta'lal'ta gave out a hacking chatter and fell back. Crais' makeshift dagger had struck home. He reeled back and fell, just as Muukarhi reached him.

She gasped as Crais lay there panting. Hafta'lal'ta may have been dead, but in that brief clash Crais had not gone unpunished. Crais has a massive wound across his chest – and it was pouring blood.

Muukarhi tore down the corridor, found the ration pack and hurried back, pulling out what medical supplies it had, doing what she could to close off and treat the wound. She stripped him to his bare chest, shook her head that she dared not use any of their water to wash the wound. Hoping that those claws hadn't been poisoned, she proceeded to seal and wrap it as best she could.

She hoisted him to his feet after, grabbed their packs and helped the wounded ex-Captain up to the rear observation tier. Just outside it hung the bounty hunters' ships. She sat him against the wall, checked the wound.

"I appreciate your ministrations." Crais said, voice weary, reflecting the pain he was in.

"What you did was very brave." Muukarhi told him, surprised at herself. "I did not expect it."

"I did not expect you would have remained – simply for one tech. But you did. I am sorry about him, by the way. He tried to help me." Surprised again, Muukarhi asked how he died.

"Well." Crais told her, and left it at that.

Muukarhi nodded again, said nothing, reassessing this man again. She was about to inquire as to their next move when the floor shifted under their feet. It was a subtle thing, as if Elack were turning.

"Did you feel that?" Muukarhi asked.

Crais nodded, perplexed.

"It feels as if this Leviathan is moving, but he's dead."

"That's definite. His circulatory system blew several arns ago – he is definitely dead."

There was a shudder then, a rumble followed that ended in a loud slamming sound, just beyond the bulkhead.

Muukarhi looked toward the ceiling, slowly her gaze came down on Crais.

"What did _that_ just sound like?" She asked, as if she already knew the answer. Crais, too believed he knew.

"Very large… _grapples_."

Muukarhi took off to the other side of the observation deck on a run, Crais waiting.

"Frell!" She bolted up to Elack's rudimentary open observation blister, skidded to a stop just in the door. Behind her, she could see Crais' inquiring gaze.

Above their heads hung the very _last_ thing either wanted to see – the long dark shape of a ship both recognized:

_A _Pantak_-class Vigilante._


	2. Chapter 2

**CRICHTON AND MIRIYA RAN, KOIBAN HOT ON THEIR HEELS.**

Behind them, far behind them, the siren wails of local firefighting, local law enforcement. It had been a close thing, that ambush. Crichton bore a sharp pain in his leg, and Koiban called again for a halt, sure they had out-distanced any pursuers. Miriya agreed, and when they had, she promptly flopped to the pedway, gasping.

"_Dammit_, John!"

"Bounty hunters," he panted. "Frelling figures! I _knew_ it didn't smell right."

Koiban looked barely winded. He pointed at Crichton's leg.

"Shall I look at that? You have an object sticking in your leg."

"Yeah, if you would." Koiban dropped to a knee, looked his leg over. A slight trickle of blood ran from the wound the splinter had made. Koiban carefully extricated it, dressed the minor wound.

"It is nothing serious. A splinter." He held it up. Crichton took it, looked it over. It was a light tan, three hentas long, with a barbed tip, stiff, barely thicker than a hair.

"Not a splinter. Those hunters – whatever they were – zapped us with these. A lot of these. I think they're… _quills_." Koiban blinked, looked at it again. Miriya slowly climbed to her feet.

"Se'em'aari." Koiban intoned, as if it were something mystical.

"No way." Miriya panted beside them. She was looking at the quill curiously, however.

"Seema-what?" Crichton asked.

"Not your typical bounty hunters." Koiban told him. "They operate as a Triad – three sisters – and they _don't_ give up." Koiban scratched his chin, thinking hard. "As to who could send them… well, they are _far_ from cheap. They will not work for just _anyone_." He took the quill back from Crichton. "They are covered – the females anyway – with these spines – quills – and they have immensely fine control over them. They have _millions_ of them – and they re-grow _very_ quickly." He sniffed the end of the quill, then rubbed it with his fingers. "Hmmm. Mild soporific. Meant to slow you down."

"Well, it's working. My leg already feels twenty kilos heavier." Koiban nodded, reached into a pocket, pulled out a pill.

"Take this. It'll counter it." Crichton eyed it, shrugged, swallowed. "It'll take a bit to work. We should proceed."

"We're getting farther from the port, I'm noticing." Miriya said, scanning behind them.

"And D, Chi, Ryge and Jool." Crichton said, feeling the 'weight' in his leg ease off a smidge. Koiban turned, crossed the roadway, to the other pedway and a small kiosk. He ran a finger along it and it lit up.

"We are near the Workers' District. Follow me."

Koiban led the way, not checking if they were following or not, and Crichton just shrugged and followed. Miriya sighed and followed him, glad at least that they weren't running. By the time they had stopped again, Crichton's leg felt normal. Koiban stopped at a structure that reminded Crichton of a tollbooth.

"Do either of you have currency?" He asked. Both nodded. "Three chits for Five Sector." He told the tollbooth. The booth quick-scanned them and then said,

"_Ten krindars per ticket."_ Koiban looked at them expectantly, and they each handed over ten.

"What was that scan?" Miriya asked.

"Currency determination." Koiban told her, stuffing the currency into a slot. "Which kind we were carrying that could cover the cost."

"Handy," Crichton said.

"What's in Five Sector?" Miriya asked.

"A ship port."

"A _private_ ship port?" Crichton asked. A nod answered him. "Good. Let's go."

Koiban again led the way, and Miriya allowed him a few paces before she grabbed Crichton's arm, pulling him up short.

"Should we be trusting him this blindly?" She inquired, watching his back descending down the access to the transport system.

"If he gets me to D and the others, sure." Crichton propelled her after Koiban. "Now quitcherbitchen." A hard slap on her posterior made her yelp and soured her mood even further. Crichton stayed in his odd mood for the entire trip, and it was Koiban who apologized.

"Sorry – wide spectrum counteragent. It usually has no adverse effects on a Sebacean."

"He's not a Sebacean."

"Oh. Interesting." He looked at Crichton's pupils. They were dilated – slightly. "He'll shake it off soon enough." Miriya sighed again, rubbed the spot between her eyes. She _really_ didn't need this dren. Fortunately, Crichton was himself by the time they'd left the transport and hired a conveyance to take them to the ship port.

A V'rahn met them at the entrance, backed by half-a-dozen Constables - and Koiban recognized it. It had been the same V'rahn that had 'purchased' Chiana earlier, P'tahrah.

"Evigan Koiban." P'tahrah indicated him with a haughty finger. "You step out of your bounds."

"That is a matter of opinion." Koiban told P'tahrah, not liking the V'rahn one bit.

"You are Crichton." P'tahrah said, glaring.

"I know who I am." Crichton reposted, with a smirk.

"Miriya Breannados." P'tahrah said in mild surprise. "The Master will be most pleased you have deigned to come and see him, after so _many_ requests." Miriya looked sheepish, as the two males with her looked at her with some suspicion. P'tahrah indicated that they were to follow.

"Look – I've got a Se'em'aari Triad on my tail, apparently. Can't this wait?" Crichton asked.

"The Warlord wishes to see you. The bounty hunters are of no concern. Come."

Both Miriya and Koiban shrugged. They followed. This _was_ why they'd come, after all.

"No, hold on, you don't get me. The Triad. That was _me_ asking _you_ and your bully-boys here to get it _off_ my back."

P'tahrah looked at him like he'd just been scraped off a boot.

"No." He resumed walking. "Come. They are of no concern at this time."

Crichton cursed, but he followed.

* * *

**"NO."**

"I beg your pardon?"

"_No_. This is not the way I do business." Crichton folded his arms, put his feet up, and put on his best disgruntled face. "Not a single thing about this smells legit. Not one. You want me to go on a suicide mission."

D'Strand'm'tah glared at the Human.

"I have told you _three times_ that I will supply you with everything you need. Am I some fool to give up all my playing pieces so early in the game?"

"John," D'Argo began. "This is a legitimate deal. We help him and he helps us."

"Are you trying to tell me," Crichton leaned forward. "That with the endless wealth you have, with fifty _million_ troops and frell knows how many ships, you set up some plan to find and recruit _us_ to free your family? Us, _specifically_?"

"Yes." D'Strand'm'tah tried to look innocent, failed.

"Oh, _spare_ me!" Crichton drew back. "If I wanted bullshit, I could just watch the PK Propaganda Stations! I don't give a frell who the hell you are. I don't move a henta until I get the real reason."

Rygel gave out a dramatic sigh, Jool looked confused, Chiana thoughtful and D'Argo suspicious. Miriya just put her head in her hands. Evigan stayed out of it.

"Why you specifically?" D'Strand'm'tah asked.

"Yeah, _us_. You could have easily hired an army of mercs to go and do it."

"Yes, I could have, and I thought about it." D'Strand'm'tah finally conceded. "But I require… finesse. I will not risk my family. Mercenaries would not show the… care… for which you are famed."

Crichton sniffed, nodded, but it wasn't in agreement. "We have two Leviathans – one only a few days away from complete nuttery – waiting. What do you propose to do about them?"

D'Strand'm'tah sat, and he was remarkably calm, although his eyes blazed.

"I will send two cruisers to escort Moya back to Abbanerex. _Twenty_, if you want. You have my personal guarantee – backed by a _monetary_ guarantee – that they will receive the absolute best of care. I will send P'tahrah to personally oversee it."

Crichton sat back down, matched the Warlord across from him.

"Fine. That's your down-payment." He saw the fires stoke in the Ashkelon's eyes, didn't care. "I'll rescue your family – but our Leviathans get fixed, whether I succeed or not."

"Agreed." D'Strand'm'tah was still trying to decide if he'd made a mistake.

"If and when I do retrieve them – I get to name my _own_ price." Unnoticed, Miriya looked up and she was studying Crichton with new eyes.

D'Strand'm'tah gave him a hard look, assessing. Crichton let him look. After several long and tense moments, the Warlord nodded.

"Agreed." They stood. "However… if you return _without_ them, you will never again be able to go near an inhabited system for the rest of your natural life, for I will put _half_ of my fortune on your head as a bounty. As you can imagine, it is _considerably _more than any government will pay for you. You will never again know a moment's peace. That, I promise you."

"Yeah, sure." Crichton waved that away. "You have this other guy's mistress?" A nod. "Give her back then."

"With an escort?" D'Strand'm'tah's lips curled into a strained smile.

"More like retainers. He'll expect that, won't he? She'll need attendants. She's still aristocracy, isn't she?"

"Yes, of course."

Crichton nodded. "All right then. Find me, Miriya and Koiban some uniforms." Both started, began to protest, but closed their mouths, knew it would be pointless.

"John…" D'Argo interrupted. "We'll help you." Chiana was nodding at his side.

"No, D. You're the Captain of Moya now. You have other responsibilities. Take her back, get her fixed. Talyn too."

"Are you sure?"

"Deny it, D. You know it's your duty now."

D'Argo shook his head.

"No, John. Chiana…"

Crichton looked back at the Warlord.

"You'll be taking Chi with you. There's no need for hostages." A pause. "Is there?"

D'Strand'm'tah smiled.

"No. You are free to go at any time." He bowed his head to Crichton. "Well-played."

"Not over yet." Crichton walked around the table, grabbed a flabbergasted Miriya and a stunned Koiban and led them toward a door. "Let's get you kids some uniforms, _hmmm_?"

* * *

**CRAIS COUNTED THE SOLDIERS AS THEY DROPPED FROM THE VIGILANTE'S BELLY ONTO ELACK'S OUTER HULL.**

_Ten._ A small strike squad. They were but two. He wondered if he should be flattered that they even bothered. They could hear the groaning of biometal as the Peacekeepers began cutting an entry hole into Elack's side.

"This is very bad." Muukarhi muttered, backing out the door of Elack's Terrace.

"They will certainly not act like bounty hunters, " Crais added - unnecessarily, Muukarhi thought. "I doubt we have enough ammunition for a sustained firefight."

An ambush was unlikely. Crais was right in that they didn't have the resources for a sustained firefight. They couldn't take it into the ductwork because Elack's gravity systems, which were generated from his own mass and specialized bladders, would fail soon. Zero-G in a duct did not appeal to her. The Peacekeepers would have armored suits on, so lack of air and heat wouldn't matter to them, and it was already growing colder in the corridors. Help was at least a day or so away.

"Our only alternative is to hide." Crais told her as they ran along.

"For how long, Crais? Do you feel that? Once they finish that hole, what's left of the air in these sections is heading into space, along with what's left of the _heat_. In case you failed to notice, almost all the doors between here and Command are _open_." Muukarhi slid to a halt, cursed to herself.

"Dren! _Stupid_." She ran back the other way, digging through her pack as she did, a bewildered Crais skidding and turning.

"Where are you going?" Crais called. He saw Muukarhi pull something from his pack, stop a moment, which allowed Crais to catch up. Muukarhi turned, a mask in his hand. She pulled it over her head.

"We have _rebreathers_, they're standard in these station packs. I'd forgotten all about them. They're for emergencies, for breach events. They won't last long, but they should last long enough."

Crais followed suit.

"Long enough for what?" Crais asked as Muukarhi resumed her run. He figured she had a plan.

"For us to reach the propulser chambers. Normally one could not get near them, but this Leviathan is dead. If we can get to them before they get in here, we can hide. The alloys in there are very dense."

"Excellent." Crais followed her, his wound aching. He gritted his teeth and kept moving.

Behind them, they heard metal scream and a heavy clanging, echoed up the corridor followed by a sudden rush of air. The Peacekeepers were in.

Then, it got worse.

The gravity went, and everyone suddenly found themselves floating.

Muukarhi grabbed Crais, kicked off the ceiling, now the floor, toward the door at the end of the corridor, the only one closed. The troopers behind them were flailing, trying to right themselves. Behind the troopers, the side of the corridor suddenly blew out in a massive _whump_, a pressurized conduit failing as the gravity was lost. The troopers vanished in the thick haze.

"Fluidic regulatory conduits. That will not last long," Muukarhi grunted, grabbing the edge of the door and pulling for all she was worth. Crais said nothing, but was quick to help. They'd managed the door, and then had to hold on as the air behind it tried to rush into the corridor. Muukarhi and Crais managed to haul themselves in and both pushed mightily to close the door. There was a thud and both found themselves drifting serenely in silence – and air.

Muukarhi pulled her mask off, panting.

"So, Crais…" she said after a few microts, between pants. "What did you do today?"

Crais blinked, and then suddenly smiled. Muukarhi merely smirked, glanced up the corridor, listening hard. Nothing.

"They will begin searching soon," Crais ventured.

Muukarhi nodded.

"Very likely."

Muukarhi found herself slowly sinking to the floor/ceiling. Gravity was somehow reasserting itself, although not as strongly as before.

"The Vigilante," Crais said to her questioning look, as his feet contacted solid ground. He did a little jump. He floated up about half-a metre, came down.

"It is meant only for the troopers, I assure you."

"Naturally."

"I noticed a large C-type Veridane transport out there. The Peacekeepers have ignored it."

"It's likely the Insectoid's. Or was, at any rate." Muukarhi began moving away. "Do you know how to fly a Veridane ship?"

"I'm afraid not." Crais answered, trying to keep from bouncing in the light gravity.

"I believe I can." She mused as she went. "It was not docked. The Insectoid must have crossed without an umbilical."

"It would be extremely risky for us to attempt a likewise feat without suits."

"It was only a few motras away, and the hatch was left open. With our rebreathers – and care – we could make it."

Crais shook his head. Yesterday, his only care had been in finding Talyn some help. He had never bargained for it to go this way. At all. What had Crichton called similar situations? Ah, yes. "Screwing the pooch." Whatever that actually meant.

He weighed his options. One, he could remain here, hide and freeze to death or suffocate, whichever came first. Two, he could be captured by Peacekeepers, taken back to a Carrier, summarily tried and then enter the living death of induced Heat Delirium, _or_ he could risk leaping through open space to a ship he knew nothing about, quite possibly failing and dying when the pressure differentials in space crushed his insides.

He smiled quietly to himself. _Which death, Bialar, would you prefer?_

_At least I have a choice_, he decided, and choose the one that gave him the best odds.

"We must find a hatchway. The Insectoid may not have needed one, however."

"Frell. In this area, there are only small service ones for DRD's. We won't fit."

Crais thought, and thought hard.

"When we were approaching this Leviathan, you said that much of his Hammonside – and his hanger there, though closed - was in a vacuum."

"So it is."

"Is it open to space?"

"No. He had atmospheric vent failure some time ago. Just a symptom of his age." She wondered where he was going with this.

"So, there is still pressure there. He had _cargo_, you said. Ship _maintenance_ cargo."

Muukarhi looked at him with new eyes. "_Pressure suits_."

Crais nodded, glad he had remembered. "Possibly maneuvering packs, tools we can use. If we can get there."

Muukarhi scanned their surroundings, nodded, indicated that he was to follow her. Behind them, they could hear heavy-shod feet approaching. She pulled off a heavy grate and they squeezed through, and she pulled it shut just as feet pounded around the corner and marched smartly past them. She shook her head and indicated that he should keep moving. He winced, and did as bade. A spot of wetness hit her face as she followed, and she stopped, wiped it, was surprised to see a drop of blood on her fingers. Other droplets were slowly falling to the floor in the lower gravity. Crais' wound. To look at him, you would think he'd not been wounded at all, though he was still bleeding. Muukarhi smiled to herself, decided to stop trying to figure him out, and just go with it. She'd check his wound when they exited the conduits.

Crais knew he was bleeding again, but the pain was tolerable. Not much longer. If they could get to the Insectoid's ship, and avoid the Vigilante, they had a chance.

Crais suddenly had a flash of how Crichton thought in a crisis, why he'd done the seemingly inexplicable things he'd done during an emergency. As a Peacekeeper, Crais had been taught that every eventuality had a procedure, and every procedure an eventuality.

No wonder Crichton had beaten or outfoxed Peacekeepers so often, Crais realized. _Take the chance_.

It was a lesson Crais was beginning to take to heart.

* * *

**APPARENTLY, IT HAD BEEN PLANNED FOR QUITE SOME TIME.**

They managed 'Morning's Bounty' - Strad'ail'leevis' prison world - without incident. On an Ashkelon ship, surrounded by Constables, it looked legit.

As they passed through its outer security, and entered the atmosphere, surrounded by Strad'ail'leevis' heavily armed escort ships, Be'bari'a, who had been nervous they entire time, agitated, seemingly uneasy with the prospect of getting anywhere near the system, suddenly _relaxed._ That had been his first clue. He'd been preoccupied with trying to count ships, look over defences, plan a way _out_, and a small voice had mentioned the incongruity. Unbeknownst to any other on the ship, he'd gathered Miriya and Koiban and gave them a few instructions.

When they landed, Be'bari'a walked off the ship, through the line of Strad'ail'leevis' own type of Constable – Pacifiers, he called them - and vanished. Crichton had nodded to himself and Strad'ail'leevis' soldiers abruptly opened fire, and it was all Crichton could do to avoid getting fried himself. As it was, he had thirty pulse rifles in his face the instant he looked up and was slammed into a cell by the time he'd figured out the majority of the details of the screw-job.

Crichton did the only thing he could at that point.

He put his feet up and relaxed.

In his command tower, Strad'ail'leevis looked at the at-ease Human and frowned. He'd won, hadn't he? D'Strand'm'tah would have to pay a heavy price now. Strad'ail'leevis would name it and D'Strand'm'tah would pay, whatever he asked. Would he give over _all_ of his assets for his family, the stupid sentimental fool? His glee had been great when Be'bari'a had informed him that D'Strand'm'tah had contracted outlaws to help him – and no less a personage as John Crichton himself. An added bonus. Hand Crichton over to the Peacekeepers and insure they stayed off his back for the next hundred cycles – as well as the massive reward for the fellow. Unlike D'Strand'm'tah, Strad'ail'leevis had not seemingly-inexhaustible financial resources to draw on. Well, _that_ would change now, wouldn't it? Strad'ail'leevis liked the idea. Yes, his brother Warlord could pay in installments – _tribute, _massive tribute every cycle, and in a few cycles, if he were happy with the quantity and promptness of the payments, D'Strand'm'tah could perhaps _visit_ his family. Perhaps. It would do.

He couldn't simply make D'Strand'm'tah a vassal, take over his territory, however. The other Warlords would not permit that. Cripple another, yes, strip him of wealth and troops and friends and family, certainly, but Ashkelon law forbade the complete annexation of any Warlord dominions by another Warlord. "Administer", if necessary. But no outright conquering. The strength of all Warlords was the strength of all Ashkelon. Warlords themselves could come and go but the dominions must be maintained.

Be'bari'a embraced her lover when she arrived in his tower, and he congratulated her on a part well-played.

"You have Crichton?" She asked. He smiled, nodded. "And the others." She added. His smile faded.

"What others?"

"The _others_! He had two companions – dressed as attendants!" Strad'ail'leevis immediately turned on his V'rahn, Stralh.

"Well?" Stralh turned pale.

"My Lord, the Lady Be'bari'a must be …mistaken… _all _of D'Strand'm'tah's Constables and attendants have been accounted for – and the transport thoroughly scanned. There, uh… were _no_ others."

Be'bari'a rounded on Stralh.

"_What?_ I was _there_! I _saw_ them board! They are either on that ship or in this prison! A Sebacean female and an Interion male! _Find them!_" She smacked Stralh across the back of the head and pointed out the door. Stralh scrambled to get out.

"Don't hit the V'rahn." Her lover dryly told her. "You're certain he had companions?" Be'bari'a glared daggers at him.

"Of course I am!" She stalked to the monitor, looked at the supine outlaw on it. "_He's_ done something."

"I don't think so." Strad'ail'leevis told her, making himself comfortable. "So tell me, my dear – what do you think _they're_ worth?" He pointed to a small bank of monitors, on which multiple-angle images of what appeared to be quarters were displayed. On the large on in the middle she could see a number of individuals, all female. Ah, yes. D'Strand'm'tah's family.

"Not much." She sneered. "But you will be able to name your price."

"Indeed." She shook her head. "What?"

"What? Nothing. I was merely thinking it would have been easier if you'd simply allowed me to seduce and then 'marry' him. It _would_ have been easier."

"You overestimate your charms, Lady." He laughed at her. "He was not about to give up Rial for _you_. Certainly not for some ridiculous symbolic marriage." Be'bari'a sniffed, sat with arms crossed, in a huff. "Don't fret, my dear. Massive amounts of currency have a way of easing any amount of pain."

Be'bari'a looked disgusted, shook her head again, indicated Crichton.

"What will you do with him?"

"He was an unexpected bonus. He is worth nearly 35 million currency pledges to the Peacekeepers. Perhaps I'll let you have that – you did, in essence, capture him."

"You're too generous."

"So I am." He said smugly. "To a point."

"Perhaps it would be best that we… " she was interrupted by another of her lover's V'rahn, who cut in on the monitors before them.

"_Milord, I must report."_

"Proceed."

"_Several of your guard have been found dead in Nine Sector_."

"Cause?"

"_Unknown at this time. I would like to recommend a level one security alert."_

"No, that's unnecessary. Investigate and report." The V'rahn nodded, and the screen switched back to its normal view. Strad'ail'leevis found himself drawn to watch Rial. She was astonishingly lovely. He wondered briefly if she could be persuaded… no. That would be futile. She had _scruples_.

"Is that wise?"

"It's not Crichton's ghostly friends, if that's what you're thinking. Nine Sector is on the other side of this complex – and this complex is fifty metras wide." He sat back, self-satisfied. "Even if they exist, they could not have landed anywhere without my forces knowing."

"Explain your guards."

"Prisoners, most likely. Every once in a while one or two get lucky and manage to lash out at a guard. Inevitable."

"You are too complacent," Be'bari'a sighed at him as she rose. "It will be the death of you."

"Unlikely." He eyed her as she walked away. "Where are you going?"

"To Azure Meanings. It _has_ been a while since I've been home, you know."

Strad'ail'leevis waved her away.

"As you will. I left your apartments as you left them. I'm sure you can find some pretty boys to amuse yourself with. " And then he promptly forgot her. He probably shouldn't have, but such were the ways of fate.

* * *

**MIRIYA BREANNADOS WAS NOT A HAPPY WOMAN.**

She and Koiban were outside, hidden in a waste exhaust vent, staring up at the Command Tower of Strad'ail'leevis, and she was wondering just what in Hezmana Crichton expected her to do about it. They'd bailed out of the ship as it had entered orbit, in a sensor-opaque pod. How he _knew_, she couldn't imagine, but she was starting to take him far more seriously than she had been. She did a passive sensor sweep, so as not to set off any alarms, found Crichton in the prison and a number of anomalies she couldn't readily explain. She chalked those up to the vagaries of Ashkelon prisons, turned her scanner on the Tower.

"It has remarkably few defences for being a command annex for a prison," Koiban noted over her shoulder. She agreed. The place had a rudimentary array, no pressure or molecular sensor grids, nothing more sophisticated than a proximity net. She checked, checked again and shook her head.

"That's too easy," she frowned. "It's not easy on a passive scan, but I think there's more to his security than meets the eye. I'm getting subtle soil anomalies."

"Buried sensor drones. _They_ have all the sensitive scan platforms."

"Frell… I think you may be right on that one. _ That's_ a bit trickier."

To their left, there was a hum and a roar and a supply transport took off. On Miriya's scanner, sensors that she could register went dark.

"Well, well, what's this?"

Koiban looked.

"Interesting. I saw something similar on Shepheridahn during the Ashel Pogrom." He pointed at the cycling rates on her scanner screen. "The Ashel had rather sensitive scan platforms. Whenever a ship left a port, the scanners were designed to cut their resolutions to avoid burnout from EMP leakage and harmonic overloads of ship engines. The unfortunate side effect was that a savvy enemy could use that against them – and the Peacekeepers did just that."

She looked at him with new eyes.

"You were there for that slaughter?"

He nodded, shook his head at the memory. He'd been conscripted into an action with the rest of his platoon.

The Ashel had been a technologically-advanced race, but they had also been, as a race, infected with a highly contagious, one hundred percent lethal disease of their own making and several governments had surrounded and quarantined their space. They weren't the only ones susceptible. The Peacekeeper force contracted as border patrol had taken it upon themselves to act after one of their ships had been boarded by the desperate Ashel and two thousand Peacekeepers infected and killed.

That it had been unintended had meant little. They'd had been short-handed and had press-ganged a number of garrisons in the vicinity and launched an assault. It was long, grim work, and not something Koiban liked remembering. Even though official policy had been quarantine (_they would all soon enough die on their own, which was cruel enough_) and once that was accomplished the looting (_certainly not official, but it happened_) and glassing of their worlds to prevent further infection – the wholesale butchery of an entire race was not something he'd relished. Calling it 'merciful euthanasia' had not helped. That they couldn't have been saved anyway and the disease would have given them far more cruelly-lingering deaths made no difference. That he would have been killed himself had he refused changed nothing to his mind.

He was a murderer in his own mind – a butcher of innocents. He was sorely ashamed of it, but it was not in his character to hide such things.

It was why he had dedicated himself to healing. He would _not_ kill. _Never again_.

"The cycling isn't very long," she noted. "It's already back to strength." She smiled at him. "And you were right about the buried drones." She pointed at the readings. "Dozens of them. I took the opportunity for an active scan."

"Lovely. Nervandi Mobile Security Platforms. Droids." He frowned. Interions had an almost inbred revulsion for military-grade artificial and machine intelligences. There was little merit in letting a machine do all your intellectual work for you. Some decisions had to be made by organics – and that included _all_ life and death ones. Mindless killing machines offended many of his sensibilities.

"Whatever. We can't get by them – and I'm not a sewer-pipe-crawling kind of girl."

Koiban agreed with her. He thought about it and then hit on an idea. They'd taken spare Pacifier weapons with them in the pod, and he made his way back, returned with one of their infamous shock rods.

"No offence, Koiban, but that's not going to do much good against a droid. They're hardened against those kinds of pulses."

"Agreed. But the average full-out pulse for one of these things is somewhere in the vicinity of four thousand trads. Jammed into a sensor node, it would do considerable damage."

Miriya grinned at the idea but shook her head in veto.

"True, and alert everyone in the tower – and activate all the automated defences over there."

"We cannot sit here forever." He told her. He wasn't exactly a 'man of action', but Koiban knew better that sitting around accomplished nothing. Miriya took the rod from him, looked it over.

"What are the power packs like in one of these things?" she pried a cover off the rod and looked inside. "Relayed. Thought so." She started yanking them out, Koiban watching curiously. "Sequential build-up with each one only having a limited charge. Nice! Static couplers – fine design." To Koiban's questioning looks, she smiled. "Sorry. To maximize power in these, they use limited charge, slave-linked power packs with static couplers – which can easily double the charge just by transference of charge through the packs. I can appreciate a nice design sense. It's quite clever."

"How does it help us?"

"We can't use the rod itself. Jamming it anywhere – aside from lacking finesse – would just set off alarms. But these packs by themselves should be enough to disrupt the overall grid out there and let us through without waking up those frelling droids."

Without waiting for him to agree or disagree, Miriya abruptly flung a pack into the air, pulled a pistol and hit the pack at the apex of its flight – blowing the pack into bright blue pulsating energy shards. Across the way, lights went out on the fences. Wasting no time, Miriya grabbed Koiban's arm and dragged him out of the vent.

"Let's go! We don't have long!"

They reached the fence, and Koiban hoisted Miriya over, climbed up rapidly himself. His feet hit the ground on the other side just as the sensors came back online.

"That was quite the shot," he said, reappraising her, not without a little suspicion, she noted.

"You pick these things up. Ex-Peacekeeper." She tapped a finger on her breastbone. "I might have been a tech, but we do get some weapons training. Stay against the fence."

"Some – that was more than some. I've known 30-cycle veterans that could not have done that."

"Part of being a tech is having excellent spatial-reckoning skills, Koiban. Can we get on with this, please?" She snapped, annoyed. He nodded, indicated for her to lead the way. They managed a few motras between outbuildings when Miriya brought him up short.

"What is it?" Koiban asked. Miriya was staring intently out into the compound.

"Do we know them?" She asked, pointing to a trio of figures making their way across the compound. They moved silently, but they didn't seem to be going out of their way to hide themselves. They wore dark cloaks and silver masks.

"We now have larger problems." Koiban intoned. "Those are our Se'em'aari friends."

"_Here?_ How'd they follow us _here_?"

"Unknown."

"Frell. We've got to get to Crichton before they do." Miriya looked hurriedly around for alternate routes.

"We can't get near the prison with all the guards and that tower watching everything." Koiban told her. "What were you planning?"

"I was going to find a power conduit and jam the rest of these packs in it and set them off, blind the whole complex for a few arns."

"Was that not what I had suggested with the shock rod?" He asked her.

"No. The shock rod would have set off alarms as an attack, and the packs would have looked like a conduit power overload."

Koiban was watching the Se'em'aari. Like wraiths, they vanished into the tower.

"It will likely be unnecessary. Prepare to run."

Miriya was going to ask him what he meant when she heard screams and shouts begin to echo from the tower. Lights inside started going out. There was an ominous humming and clacking as pulse cannon began deploying themselves.

"Oh, frell." Miriya breathed, watching them do it.

"Indeed," Koiban agreed, pushing her along. "Run, please."

They ran. Behind them, the cannons started destroying everything that moved.

* * *

**THE COLD WAS PROFOUND.**

Hammonside had been in vacuum for quite a long time. Crais and Muukarhi bounced cautiously through the dimly-lit cargo bay, and suppressed a shiver. She inadvertently kicked some debris and they watched it bounce silently away. The place was like a tomb, and Crais thought the comparison apt, now that the great creature through which they moved was dead. Cold and silent in this vacuum, they were all eyes, moving cautiously. It took them more time than they would have liked, but they at last found what they was looking for, cracked the case, peered inside, smiled under their rebreathers.

They were older models, but the pressure suits piled neatly in the crate were Sebacean and functional. Crais checked the backpacks, was gratified to see them charged. Whatever else his people were, they built well. These suits could have been over a hundred cycles old, and he'd known they'd work. He found one roughly his size, pulled it on, cinched it up, felt better for it. Taking a deep breath, he peeled off his rebreather, activated the backpack and pulled the helmet on. He coughed at the initial pulse of stale air, then breathed deep as it cleared. Heat began to rise in the suit, would level off to a comfortable level soon enough. Sebaceans didn't mind the cold, true, but there were levels of it even they'd rather not have to tolerate for long. Muukarhi finished putting her suit on, was cracking other cases. Crais rigged his suit for suit-to-suit communication, a limited form that required the suits to be in contact in order to work. It would preclude anyone overhearing. He put his hand on her shoulder.

"_We're doing well_," he told her and she nodded.

"_There's a dorsal exit hatch at the top of this bay_," she said, looping a toolkit over a shoulder. "_If we can get out, we may be able to cross Elack from the outside and board the Insectoid's ship that way. I don't think the Vigilante will be expecting us to be outside."_

He was about to release her and step away when she suddenly yelled and jerked away from him. He looked about hurriedly for an enemy and saw nothing. After a moment, she came back, put a hand on his arm and said sheepishly, "_I apologize. For someone who has spent her life working on Leviathans, you would think I would be a little less jittery on them_." She pointed to a dim pair of lights on a crate before them, and Crais realized that it was a DRD.

"_I must have brushed it and activated it_," Muukarhi said. "_It startled me._"

"_I shall not mention it if you do not_," He told her, and it prompted a smile, which unexpectedly pleased him, even though that had not been the reaction he had expected. He looked at the DRD. "_It must be the only one left operating, although I had thought they went offline when their Leviathan died_."

"_They usually do. It may have been that operational instructions were cut off when this side vented into vacuum. This one has been waiting for who knows how long_."

The little machine seemed quite animated now that it saw life and movement. It's eyestalks were fully bright, and it seemed poised and waiting for orders. Muukarhi looked it over. Still functioning, but she could not guess how long that would last.

"_Take us to the dorsal hatch_." She told it, putting her hand on it to communicate, loathe to simply shut it down after she'd awakened it. She knew DRDs were mechanical, with usually simple AI, but she'd been around Leviathans her entire life, had even had a DRD as a companion when she'd been a child. She had a special place in her heart for the little servicers. The DRD spun on its crate, rolled down the side and scooted across the floor. They followed.

It arrived at a fork in the corridor, seemed to hesitate. Muukarhi gave it a microt, knew it had probably sat on that crate in standby mode for cycles. It spun in circles for a few more microts and Muukarhi toed it, which stopped it. It looked up at her, seemed to decide and sped left. Crais looked dubious and she just shrugged. So far it was going in the right direction. They followed it for another half-arn, were almost to the top tier when the DRD froze ahead of them as it reached a bend. Muukarhi put her hand on Crais' arm.

"_The hatch is around that bend. It seems our little guide is hesitant to go."_

He nodded.

"_Wait here. There may be a reason for that_."

Without waiting for her reply, Crais advanced cautiously up the corridor, until he was almost parallel with the DRD. He jammed himself between the corridor ribs as a light suddenly speared down the corridor, illuminated the DRD and crawled across the ceiling. He looked back to Muukarhi, but she had wisely already hidden herself. To the DRD's credit, it did not look at Crais, but slowly began to slide across the corridor, toward the wall, as if to get out of someone's way. The light followed it. Crais pushed himself as much as he could against the wall, in a very precarious position as the owner of the light came into view – _another Invidid_.

The DRD waved its eyestalks at the colony creature, and it seemed fascinated by the little machine – and Crais took advantage of that. Without hesitation, Crais propelled himself out and past the Invidid, firing as he went. The Invidid whirled and it turned into a strange, silent fight.

In the end, however, it was not Crais who dispatched the Invidid bounty hunter – it was the Peacekeepers. They destroyed it with multiple shots, splattering it across the corridor. Crais was disarmed with little effort, and Muukarhi was quickly captured.

As Crais and Muukarhi were marched to holding cells on the Vigilante, Crais apologized to the Kia'Baa'ri who looked at him as if he were deranged.

"This is not your fault," she told him. "You did what you could."

"No, as a former Peacekeeper, I should have anticipated that move. I used to Captain a Carrier, command my own Regiments. They used the Invidid to find us, rather than search on their own. I should have realized." He looked at her with a satisfied smile, however, which she found perplexing. "On the positive side, they have no reason to hold _you_. As an employee of the Ashkelon, you are beyond their jurisdiction. I suggest you use it when they come for interrogation. It will save you." At the cells they were split up.

"Goodbye." Crais said as he was marched away. "Extend my respects to the others and tell Talyn to be strong and do his duty when he is well. Thank what remains of Elack for me as well, if you would."

Despite his fatalistic tone, it was not the last Muukarhi was to see of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**THEY SEARCHED THE TOWER THOROUGHLY.**

All resistance they eliminated, and it took them only a half-arn to clear the tower and check for their prey. The Se'em'aari Triad came back together in main operations. Against one wall, those who had not offered resistance were still alive, quiet, and watched.

"No trace, Sister Nihijji." The tallest of the three said in her soft voice, her silver mask rendering her features invisible.

"Unfortunate, Sister Aikijji. Yet our trail is not cold." The third sister was prowling the operations, checking computer records and video feeds.

"No, Sister. Not yet cold." She pointed to a bank of monitors. "I have found him."

"Excellent, Sister Iskijji." They joined her at the monitors. Thereon, Crichton relaxed in his cell. "A fine prize, Sisters." A pair of nods. Iskijji gestured toward the living tower residents.

"There is no resistance now to his acquisition." That seemed to galvanize one of the living, who stood, irate.

"Wait a frelling microt! Do you know who I am? I am Strad'ail'leevis – the Warlord of this space and ruler of this system! That is _my_ prisoner! How _dare_ you assault the Ashkelon! This will not go unpunished!" Strad'ail'leevis' pride had been wounded when he'd surrendered meekly as the Triad had stormed his tower. Now he sought to regain some of it.

Sister Nihijji turned to him, the featureless silver mask reflecting his own flushed face.

"Ashkelon, I fear neither you nor your clans. You will punish no one from oblivion. Perhaps it is best for you to ponder such an outcome." The deadly quills in which she was covered flared slightly for emphasis. Strad'ail'leevis spread his hands and smiled his most ingratiating smile.

"Forgive me. I was perhaps too …hasty. Obviously, you are accomplished beings, and of course, all know the reputation of the Triads of the Se'em'aari Sisterhood. I am the Warlord here. Perhaps, we can negotiate. You want Crichton. I have him. As bounty hunters, I know you are solely in this for the monetary compensation…"

Nihijji's quills suddenly flared higher, and it was only an instant before she killed him that Strad'ail'leevis realized his error.

"They know nothing of the Way." Aikijji sniffed. The rest of the living cowered away from them. They were ignored. "This place is a prison, Sister Nihijji. There are many more guards. The Warlord, he was…" A series of alarms suddenly went off, and Aikijji nodded. "…As I suspected. Sensors have registered and recorded his death. Alerted his forces will be."

"They are of no concern." Nihijji told her sisters. "Only Crichton matters."

So saying, she led them from the room.

When they were gone, the V'rahn, Strecum, rose and checked over the dead warlord - and then went to the command board, informed Be'bari'a that her lover was dead and she was now in command. Be'bari'a, for her part, _hated_ her ersatz lover. She shed not a single tear over his death, and already had a long list of changes she was going to make with his 'empire'. D'Strand'm'tah she despised with all the fury of a petty woman who thought of herself as a jilted lover – even though she was not one. She could not hurt him physically, so she would punish him in other ways.

On her orders, Strecum opened the cells of all two thousand prisoners.

As predicted, they immediately rioted.

Outside, the Triad paused as they heard the prison explode, then calmly split up.

* * *

**CRICHTON WATCHED HIS DOOR SLICE OPEN.**

All around him, he heard the rest on the block he was in do the same, the murmur of the prisoners and then the yells begin. It didn't take long for the place to explode. He pondered it for all of five microts, then pushed his way out into the corridor. Fires were starting to flare, and debris of various sizes was flying. Already there were bodies strewn all over. The frelling warlord had put him pretty much in the centre of the prison, in the heavy security wing, and he managed a corridor or two – having to knock a few heads together to get there. He knew _he_ could probably get out relatively easily – but that wasn't why he was here. Somewhere on this wing was a small family of ladies who were in _exactly_ the wrong place.

According to what he'd been told, Rial and her daughters would be in the centre of the prison, as he had been, maximum security, only they would have _extra_ security, supposedly. To have any of them die or otherwise be harmed (_unless it were beyond the Warlord's control – like a riot, say_) while in Strad'ail'leevis' custody would be _exceedingly_ bad form. Granted, he doubted a riot was in anyone's plans, but you went with what you had. It would neatly make escape for a group of females through an all-male prison impossible. They'd be safe, as far as that went – for a while at least. He just had to get there in one piece, himself.

As he made his way through the prison, he encountered the bodies of guards and figured it wasn't worth searching them. Given the amount of gunfire he could hear, he doubted the dead guards still had weapons, and the living ones weren't about to give up any without a serious fight.

He'd checked about half the special security cells as he entered the particularly high security area of the High Security Area, and started to wonder if he shouldn't become religious: as he turned a corner he saw the weapon and affects storage area – and it had yet to be breached. Also fortunately for him, he hadn't been searched all that thoroughly. He didn't wait. The din of the battle between inmates and guards was ebbing in and out of this section, and the last thing he wanted was the tide of it washing over him. He found the seam he was looking for and extracted his Miriya-built jammer – or as he could use it in this case – _un_-jammer. A sophisticated electronic lockpick, he slapped it to the door, activated it and kept an eye on his surroundings as it did its work.

The jammer pinged, and the door slid open. Crichton hurried in. It only took him a few moments to find a pair of "girls" and their holsters, and less time to strap them on.

Feeling _much_ better, he cast a quick glance around the rest of the room and saw something else that brought a smile to his face – a _Renvekja_-class Assault Rifle. Built much like his Forge, but using particle energy instead of Chakkan Oil, it was swift and deadly, and he helped himself, checked the charge. Fully charged and ready to go, which was particularly fortunate as a large inmate unexpectedly found the room and with a roar – possibly mistaking him for a guard due to the uniform, charged across the room at him wielding a rather large and jagged piece of already-bloody metal. Crichton didn't hesitate – the Assault Rifle punched a clean hole through the guy. He actually managed a few more steps before his brain realized that he was dead and he crashed to the floor virtually at Crichton's feet. Outside he could hear the yells and screams - the prisoners and riot ebbing in and out of the sections – and it was moving closer.

_Damn._ He looked at the corpse at his feet and knew that he couldn't avoid making more of them. He didn't know if these people were innocent or not – whatever the local's idea of 'justice' was – but he knew he couldn't afford the luxury of choice – he couldn't afford not to use deadly force.

_If _he wanted out of here in one piece – _if_ he was going to accomplish what he needed to accomplish, he would _have_ to kill today – often and a lot.

He stepped out of the room, armed and as ready as he would ever be.

_First things first_, he told himself. _If I could choose otherwise, I would. But I can't. All I can do is live with it._

He made his way to Rial's cell, and he created a reputation that day that dogged him for the rest of his life, confirmed and expanded on his 'legend' and if it could have been said it had a positive effect, it made a host of bounty hunters and enemy soldiers actually _fear_ him, which, whether he liked the idea of not, saved his life innumerable times in the coming years.

As he walked the corridors, like a fictional man-shaped machine in a movie no one here had ever seen, Crichton _killed_ anyone who came too close. That the majority of them would have killed _him_ without a moment's hesitation made no difference in his mind. He had stepped over some limit in his own head and he knew he could never go back.

This was the cold-blood kind of killing, and he couldn't stop. He didn't _dare_. Somewhere there were innocents who would literally be violently violated and torn to pieces if he didn't save them.

He knew he'd arrived when he turned a corridor and saw the group of hooting, slavering males scrabbling at a single door. A scream told him that they'd managed to _open_ it.

He shouted… something… a word, some inarticulate growl, howl or roar – he didn't remember, but he got their attention. Some went in after the females, and some came on at him, and he drew his pistols, knowing his rifle would be useless in this coming melee. It slowed down, and he found his vision astonishingly clear, saw the onrush in startling detail, could see _that_ metal rod coming slowly at his head, and _that_ fist cruise leisurely through the air, count every hair, or scale, or tooth and claw. His pistols came up and he could see them with the same radiant clarity, see that his right-handed pistol had a smear of blood on its side and an odd scrape that looked like a lightning bolt.

He fired and watched men drop and die, and he didn't think about it. He just did it. One got too close, a kick in the chest threw him back and a pulse-blast flung him into oblivion. A face come too close and the butt of his pistol would smash it away howling. When they managed to get under his pistols, he broke bones, he crippled men with his knees and elbows and heavy boots, and he never heard a word they said or a noise they made.

_A woman was screaming, a girl was crying in fear. _

Crichton slid in multicolored blood, inflicted pain and death but he never wavered. Panting in fear and intimidated by the ruthlessness of his attack, the survivors bolted away, scrambled back down the corridor.

Crichton stepped into Rial's cell and he stopped, was noticed. A yell from one of the men within, in whose bloody hands a young girl struggled - perhaps twelve cycles old, perhaps thirteen - stilled the entire room. For a few moments, a tableau was struck – in the doorway, a grim-as-the-reaper black-clad warrior and half-a-dozen would-be rapists all charged with adrenaline and lust, armed to the teeth with cudgels and blades and rage.

Something in Crichton told him to try. There was a creature inside his chest howling viciously for blood, telling him to kill and keep killing, to survive, _survive above all else_. It felt a million years old, and it was a rapidly growing monster that threatened to take him over. The side struggling to restrain the monster told him that if gave them the choice, he wouldn't feel so bad, he might stink of their blood a little less.

"Leave," he said in a voice he didn't recognize. "You'll live."

One laughed. One shook the girl in his fist like a ragdoll and told the others to kill him.

Crichton killed _him_ first. They slowed, stopped, looked at their dead leader, back to him. Another cursed, leapt forward and died.

One guy told Crichton they'd leave, but the monster in his chest would have none of it.

_Four to ambush him later. Four to try again. Four to threaten his survival._ He killed the last four without mercy or hesitation, and felt pieces of himself go quiet.

Before him, four women looked at him with the same fear, and he felt that that is all he would ever inspire from now on - until he saw the wisp of hope in the youngest daughter's eyes.

The monster hesitated.

Crichton looked again at that hope and realized that maybe, _just maybe_, the monster had its place. He had destroyed violent men who would have savaged the women before him with even less mercy he had shown those selfsame males, and he felt the growing weight on his chest ease off, a little, the monster taking several steps back.

_Whatever gets you to tomorrow, _it told him, ruthless to the end.

_That's all I've got, _he told it, hoping some part of it was true.

Rial checked her daughters, forgot the man in the doorway for a moment, and aside from tears and scrapes and a few bruises, they were unharmed. She looked back as she heard the door close and the tall man in the black guard uniform of her husband's forces slump against it. She straightened, motioned her daughters to form behind her and stood tall, faced him.

He took in her bearing, saw the dignity, the poise and he couldn't help himself, smiled at her, which seemed to take her by surprise.

"D'Strand'm'tah sent me." Was all he said, and it was enough. The girls hugged each other and their mother, chattered at one another excitedly. He, however, nipped that in the bud.

"At the moment, ladies, I'm all there is."

"I am…" Rial began, but he cut her off with another smile and a nod.

"I know. We have to _go_." He straightened, tried to turn, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Can you? Forgive me, but you look like dark death itself." Crichton looked down at himself, realized with a start that he had not come through all that unscathed. He could feel wounds start to complain, as he wound down from whatever had powered him through that crowd of the now-dead. No matter.

_First things first._

"We have to go." He told her. "Stay close to me, and do not, under any circumstances, wander off." He said it lightly, wearily, and Rial smiled, squeezed his arm unexpectedly, the warmth of it and the instant trust it seemed to convey giving him new energy. He checked the charges on his pistols, saw he was in good stead, opened the door.

Save for the corpses of the men he'd ploughed through to get here, the hallway was empty save for bouncing yells and distant screams. He risked a quick glance down another hallway, saw that the one just to his right led to the central security station, sighed with relief. That would be perfect. All he had to do was get the ladies there, lock the frelling place down, then find a way out, to a ship and get off the planet. Easy. Something would come up. It always did.

It wasn't his best plan, but it wasn't bad. Inmates were still running and fighting, flitting through the hallways before him, but they had a relatively clear path to the security hub.

"Head down that hallway," he told them. "Go calmly." They went and he backed down it behind them, eyes watching any bodies going by. He'd killed three more that charged up the hallway at him in as many minutes, and he was finding it harder to regret them – wondered idly if it _would_ just get easier. He had Crichton's memories, Crichton's ethics, his distaste for violence, but he knew now that some of those ethics, and that distaste, would have to go. John had had the luxury of those choices.

He didn't.

He paused at the security door that cut the hallway to the centre in half, checked quickly for guards, who would be as much a threat to them as the prisoners, was gratified that the hall and the room beyond was empty. He pulled the door closed behind him as he urged the women on, heard with satisfaction the lock _snick_ home. As he closed it, he saw through the heavy glass the inmates he'd left behind suddenly appear to panic, some dropping.

_Guards?_ More inmates were spilling into the corridors he'd recently vacated, and they too were fleeing something. Even as he was backing away after Rial, he saw more of them drop, many come running after him, only to be stopped by the locked door. He saw a desperate face, saw that face suddenly look terrified, heard _thunks_ of objects hitting flesh and that face slowly sliding out of view. Behind the dead, Crichton glimpsed a figure in a silver mask – and she was killing anyone who did not run.

One of those masks looked up the corridor and Crichton got the urge to move faster. By the time he and Rial had reached the end of the corridor, and the security office, a silver mask was looking through the window of the door, and the intent was obvious.

_Frell._ He realized who they were with a sudden clarity. _Bounty hunter. _The _hunters? Probably. This day just gets better and better._

The mask vanished and he knew she was looking for a way around, and that the time he thought he had had abruptly vanished.

* * *

**THE VIGILANTE PULLED AWAY FROM ELACK.**

Crais had been correct that the Peacekeepers would treat her better. She told them what he told her to tell them, and she got a berth rather than a cell. They would, she was informed, drop her near a system where she could secure transport back to Abbanerex. Any of her inquiries as to Crais were firmly ignored. "He's a Peacekeeper prisoner," is all she would get.

For his part, Crais felt remarkably sanguine about it all. He had done his best. He'd had some remarkable experiences. He had, he believed, learned a great deal.

He had been a _farmer's_ son.

Until his eleventh cycle he had grown up in a family dominated by his father, his mother having died in childbirth delivering his brother. He had learned positive values, love of life, the respect for the inherent worth of growth. He was sponge for knowledge, he never forgot a thing, never failed once in the pursuit of his goals, driven by a father's pride, driven by needs he did not understand.

There was nothing in that early life that would have precipitated the birth of a monster.

He had stepped from one life with its lessons, into another with its demands. He had not been given the choice to make the decision, but once in…

He had become a child soldier, one in an army of millions upon millions – an army that no longer knew the why of itself. An army of machines of flesh – stripped of values replaced by demands – to survive, be brutal - to conquer, be cold - to rise, be ruthless. You will have become an _elite_.

Out of those millions upon millions, that boy who watched, absorbed, learned – learned _well_ and had clawed, intrigued, subverted and murdered his way to the top – as high as he, conscripted as he was, could aspire. He had his true religion, his one rule, his one true love:

_Through power, there is no fear. Through power, there is order. Through power, there is control. _

He knew the demands.

Order is the sole goal of the Peacekeeper. The universe itself seeks higher levels of order as a natural consequence of itself – and Peacekeepers are merely a function of that natural order. They are the Fist of Order. You will be the Weapon of Order in that Fist.

So ran the writ.

Power had its privileges, most certainly, but somehow power in and of itself always rang a tad …hollow. No matter how high he climbed, his power was _provisional_. It had taken him a very long time to learn that particular lesson, but he _had_ learned it, finally. No power is absolute if it can be taken away.

There was always a bigger, more ferocious monster above you, one with sharper teeth climbing behind you.

However - by the standards of his society, he had done little wrong, indeed, he had done much that was _right,_ in their eyes – he had been at the height of his power, and power _mattered_.

What did it matter what was required to _keep_ that power?

Remember the Creed: Order Above All. Keep The Peace.

So he had been a slaver? _Those who cannot rule themselves must needs be ruled. Peace by Imposition._

So he had killed without thinking, without feeling, without hesitation? _Peace Through Strength. Strength is Power. There is no justification for power but power. He couldn't be effective if he were impeded._

It had been easy, as it always was, to fall back on the handy excuses: duty, breeding, _this-is-the-way-of-things_.

I was a soldier, and a soldier's duty is to follow orders, to smash his enemy, to die well.

But Bialar Crais had _been_ a _farmer's son_. The son of a man who valued the power of life, of the strength gained through growth, who understood that growth was as essential to those who coaxed the land to life as the land itself.

His father had been rife with metaphors.

"_I give you and your brother up because I have been allowed no choices, Bialar. You will have to make those choices for me, as you go. Help your brother see them. Remember who you were taught to be, remember where you come from_. _Grow and be strong._"

But he had been young, and the collective voices of the millions upon millions… well, they spoke to a lonely and discontented boy who found himself powerless.

He had forgotten.

He had learned the lesson of growth, had thought it had meant to _aspire_, but he had never learned just what it was he was climbing _toward_. He had forgotten to grow.

Not until…

_Velorek._

No. He'd been the _catalyst_, but _not_ the reason. Of that entire incident, he remembered _her_ face most vividly.

That pilot from the Pleisar.

She had done her duty – as had been expected.

He had extinguished the traitor - as he'd deserved. Order must be served.

So, why, he had wondered then, as he did not wonder now, did _she_ look as if he had pronounced _her _own doom? She had done nothing but her duty. So they had been recreating - had she been so weak as to step over the line and romanticize something so basic and meaningless as sex?

She was watched, but she was lost in the ranks of the Pleisar, happy with her duty.

How things can change.

A brother's death, a day of madness that stretched into cycles and lessons taught on a farm twisted beyond recognition. He had thought he'd remembered then, but all he knew by then was hate, and how subtle it could be. He never realized that his masters knew nothing else, and that all Peacekeeper training amounted to was power for its own sake, fueled by hate and disdain. He had become the monster they had taught him to be, he had sought to make himself in his quest for power.

_Why had I condemned her so summarily? Because she defended an enemy? Been contaminated by the murderer of my brother?_

No. Now he knew the lie of all that had set him on this path, now he could tell himself the truth.

_I condemned her because I hated her. I hated her for that look on her face so long ago. I did not recognize it until much later - the dread of betrayal, the agony of duty over love, the terror of knowing that you can never go back and fix what you have broken. I hated her because she had been born Pure, but she had been weak._

In the coldness of a cell on a ship bound for his death, Bialar Crais stood alone, and knew that he had been defeated all those cycles ago – before he had even begun.

I _am the author of all their unhappiness. _

He had been a _farmer's son_. She had been born into Peacekeeper life. How had _she_ grown? How had she learned so much more than he who has started life so mundanely – so frightfully normally?

He had known, she had _told_ him, but he had not understood.

"_Listen well to thine enemy."_

Of course, his enemy.

_John Crichton._

Weak. Inferior. Insidious. Contaminant.

He remembered the line, remembered it from a forbidden book:

_To know thyself and thy destiny;_

_Listen well, O warrior – _

_To thine enemy._

An ancient Peacekeeper General had penned those lines, over three thousand cycles ago. General Averni M'sekol'm, Seventh Era, Pre-Reformation, V'rogath Campaign. The Last Era, before Power became all, and honor meant more than just climbing the ranks. When an enemy could be respected, destroyed only grudgingly, only because of necessity. He _had_ thought it ridiculous.

Aeryn had shown him as she had showed Talyn. She'd continued to teach him his enemy's lessons.

_This is what it means to _need _someone._

There is no 'need' when one has possession. To possess a thing is enough. The thing either advances you or hinders you. Possession controls it's direction. It gives, you take. If it does not give, it is discarded. Simple, basic. Never allow it to determine your direction.

This _is what it means to need someone._

That had been a terrifying thing to witness.

The man who had inspired Aeryn Sun to such heights of ecstasy and longing, desire and strength – _inferior_? She had stepped from outside control into domination of self, into the letting go that returned far more than had been given up. For a moment, for _only_ a moment, he had seen matchless strength, _real_ power. Power that gave life, that defied death.

_The disease of love._

It just didn't seem possible.

_What do I owe to the dead? What do I owe to the living? I am a monster. I cannot make amends. I have done too much for forgiveness. I cannot seek redemption. All I can do is pay. I have had power, but I have never been strong. I have had longing, but I have never had love. _

Listen well to thine enemy.

_I've listened, Crichton. I have learned. _

Crais smiled to himself. Talyn had been afraid of Crichton, of his seeming power over his beloved Aeryn. Her need for that man had terrified him.

_Shall I tell you what I've learned? _I _was the arbiter of your path. _I _sent you on a journey that delivered you firmly into the hands of fate. Yes, I understand fate, now. If it had not been for me, you would never have found her. More importantly, _she _would never have found _you_. How odd to think of it – I am the poison that heals. I am an engine of destruction that forces all in my wake to rebuild – for the better, but not _because _of me – in _spite _of me. I think I understand it now, imperfectly, but I am on my way._

He thought about it, about the 'Other' Crichton, remembered his father.

_What _are _you? What were you? What can you be? Are you a poison that heals or is Talyn right to fear you?_

There were no recriminations to be made. Only choices. The choices not made, he realized, was as important, in many ways, as the ones that were.

_Crichton - you are another rife with metaphors. _

_I _am _a farmer's son._

* * *

**IT TOOK HIM A GOOD THIRTY MICROTS** to notice the two glowing eyestalks of a battered DRD staring at him from a vent in his cell. The DRD from Elack. Crais suddenly saw a chance, slim, but there.

"DRD of Elack," he called it. "I need your help." The little machine chirped and he took that as an acknowledgement. "You must disable the Peacekeepers on this vessel, so that I may escape, in the most expedient way possible. Do not damage the ship beyond usefulness if you can avoid it. Can you do that?"

The DRD chirped, and slid away. He had no idea if the DRD could actually do anything. There were twenty troopers on this ship, a formal Retrieval Squad. They were not to be taken lightly by any means. A quarter-arn went by and nothing happened. Another quarter-arn and Crais was beginning to believe that the DRD would fail or already had when he felt the air pressure in his cell suddenly tighten on his skin, saw a red light flash on the console that controlled this set of cells. Crais felt the whole ship seeming to slide to one side, stabilize. Lights went out and he knew they were off all over the ship.

It was abruptly _silent_. Worse than the dark, however, was the sudden realization that the air in the cell was becoming rapidly _thinner_. Crais was gasping when the lights suddenly came back on, and his cell door opened without warning. He gasped, started to see spots forming in his eyes from lack of oxygen and was wavering when the air returned in a gush. He caught himself, righted himself, sucking in great gulps of air like a fish out of water.

He regained his senses, stepped out of his cell, listened intently. Across the way, the door to the cells opened, stayed open. If he expected anyone to enter, he was disappointed. He left the cells, made his way cautiously to where he knew Muukarhi would be. He did not get far before he found the first Peacekeeper corpse. And then another, and another. He checked them, discovered they had all died the same way – _suffocation. _ He made it to the ship's command and discovered the same thing – all dead of suffocation. Sitting calmly on a console was Elack's DRD. It chirped when it saw him. Beside it, Muukarhi smiled up at him.

"There you are," she said in way of greeting. "I was trying to figure out this comm system."

"What happened – do you know?" he asked, starting to suspect the DRD may have taken him more literally than it should have – not that he was complaining.

Muukarhi shook her head.

"I was in my 'cabin' when the power abruptly went out. I think this DRD had something to do with it."

"Yes, it came to my cell. I asked it to do what it could to help me escape. I think it may have taken me at my word."

Muukarhi nodded.

"According to the computer's log – this DRD sent the ship into something the computer calls a 'Level Delka Purge Cycle'?" She glanced back at him, and he thought a moment, nodded.

"Clever." He stepped forward, shoved the pilot's body from her chair, sat. "The DRD made the computer believe that the ship had been contaminated with radioactive chemicals. It then vented the entire ship to space."

Muukarhi looked faintly horrified.

"You told it to do _that?_" Crais shook his head.

"Not at all. I told it only to disable them, not kill. It apparently took the most expedient way it could compute."

"That would explain why _we_ almost suffocated." Muukarhi said, sitting in the co-pilot's chair. "But not the power outage."

"The Purge Cycle is an emergency option." Crais told her, trying to re-familiarize himself with the ship controls. It had been a long time since he'd done any hands-on flying. "The DRD diverted power to our locales in an attempt to preserve the oxygen in those places, and the computer dealt with it as enemy interference."

"And shut the power off." She finished to his nod.

"Fortunately, however, not until after it began to replenish the atmosphere."

Crais remembered enough, he figured, to restart the ship. He activated the pilot's interface and found it locked. He sighed. _Of course_ it was locked. And as long as it was, they were going nowhere. It would not unlock without either a command code or a biological scan, and none of the commandos on this ship wore any rank. He rose, realizing that it would be grim work indeed in gathering all the corpses on this ship and trying their palm and retina scans in turn on the controls. No wonder Muukarhi didn't like Peacekeepers, he mused, grimly bemused. They made everything much more difficult than it needed to be.

He turned to Muukarhi to tell her what they had to do when he was distracted by her shout and discovered that they _weren't_ the only ones to escape suffocation when he was suddenly charged by a large shape that crashed out of nowhere.

* * *

**HER NAME WAS ISKIJJI.**

Behind her silver mask with its exquisitely fine filigree work, a stylized face that appeared only when light hit it just so, she surveyed the dead before her with mild disgust. It had been slaughter, with no finesse. The Prey was before her, behind doors and locks and security, but it would not matter. She would find a way. She and her Sisters _always_ found a way.

Iskijji moved back down the hallway, past the carnage the Prey had left in his wake, nodded to herself. Impressive. Formidable Prey was always to be cherished. She was vaguely disquieted that he had seemingly plunged into what could have been suicide for females that did not belong to him. No matter. He was Contracted, he _would_ be Secured. She rejoined her Sisters as they came back together. She informed them of the Prey's current location, and Sister Aikijji investigated the door. Bypassing the supposedly impenetrable was her specialty.

Iskijji saw her elder sister's mask turn back toward them. The fine work on it was heavier, more intricate. She had Hunted for far longer than had Iskijji.

"Sister Nihijji – the power for this complex is in tiered conduits, staggered grades of generator, specific by floor and doors. Please find the conduit to this section and disable it."

"At once, Sister."

Iskijji watched her go, heard a yell as a prisoner roared up a branching corridor only to die instantly as Nihijji killed him without even glancing in his direction. Nihijji then disappeared from sight.

A few moments later the power in their corridor flickered, then the corridor went dark. Iskijji heard the snick of locks jam home, and Aikijji then deftly opened them again. Behind her mask, Iskijji smiled. Se'em'aari were not, as a rule, thought of as fine technicians, and it was not something the Se'em'aari themselves liked disseminated. As the corridor went dark, however, the inside of Iskijji's mask lit up, revealing the corridor in fine detail. She could see the position of every heat source in the near vicinity with perfect clarity, and she knew that the technology in her mask would be paid for dearly by many of the so-called 'tech-adept' races if they knew. Aikijji motioned her Sisters to proceed and they fanned out across the broad corridor toward their objective. The Security Centre had independent power sources, and all locks and defences would still be in place.

Sister Nihijji, however, was most adept at using the defences of the Prey against itself.


	4. Chapter 4

**CRICHTON SAW THE POWER GO OUT OUTSIDE** and cursed. He ushered Rial and her daughters into the Commandant's office, told them to sit on the floor away from any windows and went about securing the large room as well as he could. Fortunately, the place was independently powered, and he had cameras and sensor nets to show him the entire prison, but it was only the three just outside the outer doors that concerned him now. He found a bank of controls, and began hitting buttons at random. Lights blinked and he saw indicators indicate things were happening. On a monitor before him, he saw a grid suddenly run over the floor representation just outside, and the effect it had on two unfortunate inmates who chose just then to run by. Electroshock in the floor from the looks of it – as they suddenly froze and twitched spasmodically before falling, smoking, to the ground. He saw beams of high-intensity energy crisscross hallways and figured that should hold them for a little while longer. He heard a scuff behind him and whirled – to point the barrel of his gun squarely in the face of a startled Rial.

"The point," he told her without preamble. "of staying down is actually_ staying down._"

"True," she agreed, walking calmly past him and looking over the controls he had been hitting randomly. "And I will return to doing just that – in a moment."

She began activating certain sequences of controls with a deft touch and Crichton saw the outer defences come on in a more coherent and logical progression. Right. She could read the local lingo and thus the control labels.

"That should keep us safe until my husband's forces can arrive."

Crichton winced as he wound down a little, his wounds starting to ache again.

"No forces until we're off the planet." He told her, to her surprise. He sat in a handy chair, set his gun on the console in front of him, ran his hands through his hair. Rial nodded, and indicated a monitor behind him.

"I understand." She gave a him a look of suspicion. "You are not one of my husband's men, though you wear his livery. Now, who are you and why are Se'em'aari hunting you?"

"I'm the guy your husband hired to rescue you - and I assume they're hunting me because someone hired _them_ to do that."

Rial shook her head.

"Your _name_." Crichton sighed tiredly.

"Would it make a real difference if you knew?" He cracked his neck, but it didn't help. "Why does it matter?"

"Are you a criminal?" She folded her arms.

"Of course I am," he told her, turning back to the monitors. He glanced back at her. "Look – the important thing is that I'm sticking my neck out to save yours and theirs. Just do what I say and maybe we'll get out of this dren alive."

She looked even more resolute.

"I will not listen to another word until I know who you are."

Crichton hung his head, and the sigh he blew was a disgusted one.

"I'm John Crichton," he said, and waited for the reaction. She blinked, looked to think a moment, and then a faint smile crossed her face.

"The way they describe you, I expected you to be _much_ better looking."

"It's been a long day." He shook his head. They had more immediate concerns. "Look, what can you tell me about this setup? We can't sit here forever." Rial leaned past him, indicated the monitors.

"We are centrally located. There is an emergency lift over there, but it only leads to a bunker below this facility."

"No, no good. Locked in _tighter_ won't do us a bit of good." He pointed at the electroshock-embedded floors. "What about those?"

"No. The power is out all over the facility. Those extend only beyond this immediate area, and even that won't last long. A few arns at the most."

"Fantastic. We can't stay here." He got up, stared out the big window for several long moments. She saw a look cross his face she couldn't identify, and he make a sound that could have been a sigh. "Go back in that center room, and be ready to move. Stay down and out of sight until I come back."

"Come back? What if you don't?" He was checking his pistols' charges. Then he popped a locker and searched until he found guard armor that fit him. It wasn't much, but it would offer more protection than he currently possessed.

"Then I don't. Send a distress beacon to your husband. It'll mean open war, but them's the breaks. Besides - we can't go wandering through the dark with those bounty hunters out there, anyway." He indicated the monitors and control boards. "Lock this place back up after I leave."

Rial nodded as he went. He was strong and obviously proficient with his weapons. If he was indeed John Crichton, and if even _half_ the stories were true, she and her daughters' liberation was nothing more than a matter of time. She began handing out the rest of the guard body armor and instructing her daughters, but inside she was praying. Hard.

* * *

**AIKIJJI SAW HIM FIRST.**

As he stuck his head tentatively around a corner, she fired a volley of her quills. She waited to hear if there was any indication that she had hit him, paused for just a microt – and narrowly missed being hit by the return volley of pulse fire that suddenly speared around the corner. She admonished herself for being so thick-headed and crouched low, nodding in silent salute at his quickness – then activating her HUD on the inside of her visor, waiting to see what he would do next. She could see him clearly now. A leg edged around the corner and Aikijji put a strategic quill in it, just under his knee. That elicited a satisfying grunt. He pulled back in a hurry, and Aikijji silently signaled her Sisters… when suddenly Crichton _vanished_ from her sensors!

Around the corner, Crichton had yanked the quill and realized with a curse that they could see him out here in the dark – and then he remembered his _jammer,_ which he wasted no time in activating. _Let's see how they do without the advantage_. A sharp spike of pain speared up his knee as he moved, and he did his best to ignore it. He went to his belly on the floor, crawled across the corridor, doing his best to make as little noise as possible.

"Crichton…" came lightly down the corridor as he leaned against a doorframe. It was a Se'em'aari hunter – probably the one who'd hit him in the knee. Her voice was surprisingly lyrical, almost …gentle.

"What?" He answered, just for the hell of it.

"Surely you must know you have no way out of here. The Contract does not specify your death. You _will_ live. I will even grant your females passage off this world." There was a slight pause. "We will both complete our missions."

"Nice offer. Don't buy it."

"I do not lie."

Crichton rolled his eyes. Of course she didn't. What was he – stupid?

"Sorry – can't take the chance. You want me, all you get's a corpse." He huffed. "That's all I'll be after you turn me over, anyway. Either way, I lose."

"I'm sorry – we have no control over that." A calm female voice said from _directly_ behind him, and Crichton yelled and dove almost at the same time. Quills followed him. Nihijji crouched low as a return pulse blast went over her head. Crichton rolled, rose, and pelted down the corridor. It was so unexpected that he literally ran over Iskijji coming up the corridor to join her Sisters. They went down in a heap, but Crichton recovered first, Iskijji dazed as her head bounced off the floor. Aikijji indicated that Nihijji was to go off a branching corridor and thus flank him and she calmly followed him, stepped over her younger Sister as she went. She would recover and follow, of that Aikijji had no doubt.

Crichton, however, was nowhere to be seen. Aikijji slowed, her caution great.

"It is not personal," she said to his unseen presence. "It is only the Art. The Way. The Trade."

Crichton was wedged high up the wall, just around the corner from her, balanced precariously on an exposed beam. He knew that it wasn't much, but his jammer evened the playing field, and he used every advantage he could muster. Aikijji passed beneath him, and just as it looked as if she might pass, she stopped. She looked up at the exact moment Crichton dropped on her from above, beside her, looping his right arm around her neck and suddenly jerking her over his shoulder. A sharp wrench broke her neck and she died without a sound, and he felt like a murderer. She'd said it herself, though: not personal. Not at all.

So what if it felt like it anyway?

Nihijji suddenly appeared from the branch and he was enveloped instantly in a wall of quills, barely shielding his face in time. He backpedaled away, feeling the sharp barbs bouncing off his armor, but finding their marks in his legs and torso – a staccato of pain following their impacts. He stumbled, legs flailing and crashed hard to the floor.

He scrabbled backward, but Nihijji hadn't followed. A yell followed his crash, and several voices interrupted on the scene, and a small group of convicts came upon the pair. Nihijji turned, and had killed two before falling to the improvised weapons of the half-dozen left.

Crichton had been backing away when he saw that they had no intention of killing her _quickly_. Two cons were dragging her away, one fumbling with her clothing, trying to yank handfuls of quills out simultaneously. Her mask had fallen off, and he could see a surprisingly elfin face, dominated by large eyes. Crichton looked at her, saw her bloody and broken – and she looked back at him with a look he never forgot - and did the only thing he could think of – he shot her. She jerked once and shuddered, and was unceremoniously dropped by suddenly-disappointed convicts.

Naturally the cons advanced on him.

They did not get far.

Iskijji had regained her senses.

Crichton watched her kill the cons and pass by him. She checked Aikijji, and then Nihijji and felt both pride and sadness at their passing. From where she was crouched, she plucked, as she had from Aikijji, Nihijji's "Life Barb", the opalescent silver quill, the thickest and oldest, the Se'em'aari's First Quill. She placed them both in a small pouch at her waist, watched the male on the floor attempting to remove Nihijji's barrage.

She'd removed her Sisters' masks as well, and Aikijji's already hung from her belt. She contemplated Nihijji's for a moment.

"It is the Art." She told him – maybe. She sounded as if she recounted a memory of childhood. "It is the Way. The Hunt. The Trade. It is _never_ personal." Crichton had already moved further away. Iskijji shook her head and hit him with two very precise strikes – and he stopped - gasping as his legs became suddenly useless – two quills stuck firmly in two nerve bundles in either leg. The pain was exquisite.

Another quill found its place in his wrist and the one pistol he'd drawn fell from nerveless fingers. Iskijji has come to him, stopped just short of his feet. She crouched down again, Nihijji's mask gleamed in her hand.

"Not personal…" Crichton ground out. "You turn me over and they strip me of everything I am to get what they want and dispose of what's left. How is _that_ not personal?"

Iskijji went on as if he'd not spoken.

"A Sister does not receive her Mask until after her first successful hunt. I have hunted with my Sisters many times. No Triad has ever been crippled as you have done." She reached up, pulled the quills from thighs and wrist.

Crichton lay panting on the floor. He watched her do it. He did not appear anxious, or in fear. He was defiant.

She found that most satisfactory.

"You have killed my Sisters." Iskijji looked back at Nihijji's corpse. "Why did you kill her? She was no more threat to you."

"She didn't deserve what they had in store for her," he told her. It was hard to speak now and he realized that there must have been a soporific on her quills. The silver mask tilted to the left as the Se'em'aari contemplated his answer. A short nod followed.

"This may be a little late, but I can pay you more than the Peacekeepers can." He told her, tongue feeling as if it were weighted with lead. "What do you say we call this a draw, and learn from the experience, huh?"

A sibilant hiss answered him. She sounded… not angry – _offended_.

"It is not about _money_, Crichton… it is about _honor_. To capture the infamous, the greatest criminals, the most elusive – that is our goal. We test ourselves. _Always_ there is an escape route for our Prey – if _they_ can find it. It is _not_ personal and never will be."

Crichton could feel his limbs beginning to respond.

"Okay - you want prestige over money? I can understand that. Very laudable. But the money's still good, right?" Her quills flared and then settled. She could not deny that, so she didn't.

"Only as a means to an end. Will you surrender?" A shake of the head answered her.

"I can't do that." His fingers twitched on the one pistol he had. "If I surrender I die. I can do that _without_ giving up." He smiled a fierce smile at her.

"I understand." Iskijji stood, and as she turned, a V'rahn and a squad of the local Constables burst into the far corridor. They were under orders from Be'bari'a to kill every living thing in the prison – and they were falling to their task with relish. Seemingly unconcerned, Iskijji looked down at a now-armed Crichton.

"You will not make it out of this place alive, nor your charges, nor I, as we stand." Her quills flared, and he knew she was simply flexing muscles. "Do you fear this outcome?"

"No," he said, and found that he meant it. "It doesn't make any difference who or what kills you. The end result remains the same."

Iskijji nodded as screams rang up the corridor and the crackle of shock rods arced through the air. The air stank of ozone.

"To die without a reason." She said, almost melancholy. "This is the death all Se'em'aari fear."

She pulled out Nihijji's Life Barb, held it up next to Aikijji's. She added her own to them, held them up. He looked at them.

"My Elder Sisters: the first you killed - her name was Aikijji. This, from my Sister Nihijji. I am Iskijji. Will you remember our names?"

Crichton found the strength to nod slightly, watching her closely. For some reason he could never comprehend, he knew she wouldn't kill him. Some threshold had been reached, a line crossed in their particular code.

"You will remember?" She asked again.

"Aikijji, the Eldest. Nihijji, and you, Iskijji. I'll remember." He managed to grind out. She nodded, satisfied, and crouched back down next to him.

"I will tell you a true thing: to survive, you must rid yourself of those things which make you weak – even if in the doing you break your own heart." She knelt next to him, pulled her mask off, placed the three Barbs in it. She shoved all three masks and quills into the large pocket on his pant-leg. She had surprisingly delicate features, dominated by huge green eyes. Her nose resembled a cat's.

Down the hallway, the crackle of shock rods came closer. She stood. "I will cover your escape."

"_What?_" A flabbergasted Crichton huffed. "Why?" Strength was returning to his limbs.

"They, like Peacekeepers - think only of victory or defeat. They offer no choices but their way or death. We Se'em'aari understand that this is not important. Defeat, victory – nothing. We _endure_. That is what matters. We remember those who have taught us. Will you?"

"I'll remember." he told her. She reached out, grabbed his arm, pulled him to his feet. She was stronger than she looked.

"Keep our First Quills. Wear them openly and no Se'em'aari will ever hunt you again, no matter the price offered."

She sighed and turned away, facing the oncoming Constables.

"Go back and save your females. You have taught _me_ this day, and I give you back your freedom. Escape if you can."

"Look, Iskijji…there's no need for you to…" he said, reluctant, but still backing away. "Come _with_ me."

She looked back at him with questing and questioning eyes, and for a moment, he could have sworn he saw something in them that was almost… _affectionate_. It shook him. She shook her head slowly.

"Without my Sisters... no. It is over. But, I do _not_ die for no reason." She murmured. "I have fulfilled the Way. _I_ have chosen. I will endure." She flared her quills to their maximum flare, and touched a control on a bracelet on her wrist.

"Go now – or you will die." She told Crichton, blasting a hail of quills down the corridor - and he ran, something goading him. He hit the end of the corridor just short of the Security Office when a rolling explosion slammed up the hallway, blasting him into the wall and sending him spiraling into a grey unconsciousness.

* * *

**THE COMMANDO HAD BARELY SURVIVED.**

He'd been but microts from expiring when air had rushed back. Having collapsed back into a niche off the Command he'd gone unseen.

He'd hazily watched the Nok'Bari come onto command, begin her check on what had happened, and he had been prepared to overlook it, for it had appeared that she had been the one responsible for the negation of what had happened.

When Crais entered, however, all he saw was a deserter, traitor and condemned criminal and the probable cause of the death of his comrades. He'd not considered simply hiding – his cold hate simply powered him out of his alcove and straight at the defector.

A swift blow to the back of Crais' head dropped him, and a heavy-shod boot crashed into his back, bending Crais into a bow of pain. A sharp backhand flung the Nok'Bari aside and for a quick moment, the Commando pondered the many ways Crais could die – chose the immense satisfaction of choking the life from him. Another heavy blow stunned the ex-Captain and the Command threw himself down, pinned the renegade and pulled the garrote he had on his belt, lopped it around Crais' neck, locked it in and started pulling.

A choking gasp and renewed struggle exploded from him, but the Commando knew there was little he could do. In moments, one of the more infamous – and reviled – Peacekeeper Captains would soon be nothing more than a fading memory.

Crais' only thoughts were of a rapidly-receding hope of survival and Talyn. He fought, but was weakening fast.

Muukarhi came from a society of cultural divides. Not in the human sense of there being disharmonious divisions, a born-into caste system with no hope of advancement or crossover, but of a society that made clear delineations of who did what, bent toward society's overall good.

Those of an intellectual or scientific bent, pure rationalists, hardcore realists, the technicians, the engineers, architects, etc, formed one caste (_usually the one that ran the planet and colonies_) – the one to which she belonged. There were those castes of the artisans, craftspersons, entertainers, those of that ilk. The religious castes (_these tended to be small on the Homeworld simply because there were few organizations that actually _encouraged _irrationality as it was blatantly counterproductive_). The philosophers castes, the warrior castes. With a few obvious exceptions, there was very little overlap, and fortunately, there was very little discrimination. All talents were taken into consideration, and were taken with the utmost seriousness and cultivated as well as could be. A scientist in the Science Caste had access to everything that would allow that scientist or tech or engineer to become the absolute best one possible.

That said, it was no surprise that Muukarhi was neither a warrior nor even of the mindset that permitted her, as a rule, to consider personal violence on her part toward another. In the moment, and completely rationally, however, it was a different story. Her intellectual pacifism aside, it did not prevent her from bringing the butt of a heavy rifle down across the back of the Commando's head, and saving Crais' life.

It was not until she realized that she had killed the man did it begin to trouble her, and not until Crais thanked her – to her mind for the man's death and not Crais' life – did the full horror of what she'd done come over her; cause her mind to simply blank out and for her to faint.

Crais, for his part, dazed, very sore and hurting, made her as comfortable as possible, nursed his wounds as best he could, and pointed the Marauder back toward Abbanerex.

* * *

**MIRIYA AND KOIBAN HEARD THE EXPLOSION** as they exited the ductwork they had been crawling through. They'd found an air filtration system access and had crawled in. Miriya had been tracking Crichton until he'd vanished – probably her jammer – and found him again just as the explosion rattled the ductwork. Koiban pointed to an exit down to their left and they dropped out into chaos. Bodies were strewn everywhere and the walls and floors were slick with blood.

"_Frell…_" Miriya murmured as they followed her tracker. "Did Crichton do all _this_?"

"Unlikely." Koiban said behind her. He indicated two convicts locked in an eternal death-grip. "A riot." He called a halt as they came up to a still-burning hallway. The scattered parts of several Constables littered the area. "The explosion." Thick smoke drifted ahead of them, obscuring their view.

"John's ahead of us." Miriya indicated. "But he's definitely not alone." Koiban reached down, picked up a shock rod, checked it. It crackled to his satisfaction. Miriya sighed, pulled her pistol.

"All right," She muttered. "But is he ever going to owe me."

* * *

**THE FUNCTION OF PAIN IN A HUMAN BODY SERVED A VERY SPECIFIC PURPOSE.**

It wasn't that the brain registered pain to be vindictive or arbitrary – it used pain as an alert – an _immediate_, un-ignorable alert, that something was very wrong with its body or parts thereof, and Crichton knew that, but he really, really wished it would just deliver the message and then move on – not keep hammering the point home over and over. He felt as if he'd been beaten by several dozen really huge creatures with very sharp and heavy sticks while being racked and kicked by large horses. His throat burned as if he had swallowed the very lake of fire in Hell, making it hard to breathe.

He climbed painfully to his feet, looked down the still-burning hallway, _Why the hell had she…? _Nothing to do now. She'd bought him time, if nothing else. He looked down at himself. He was bleeding from seemingly everywhere, quills still sticking from him all over, gashes and lacerations crisscrossing him. He felt the searing effects of being burnt on his neck and the back of his head, knew he was probably missing hair, and counted his blessings.

He coughed blood, spat it all over himself and tried not to think about it, tried to get his bearings. His head hurt, a lot. Yeah - the Security Office. Just there. Don't waste it. Don't waste Iskijji. Why didn't matter. She was right. She'd done it, and that was enough.

_Don't waste it._

He'd opened the door and saw Rial coming. She looked horrified at his appearance and shouted almost at the same time something hit him hard from behind, drove him to his knees.

"_You!_" a shrill voice keened at him, and he knew that the V'rahn had somehow survived. Another blow rocked him, and he flung an arm up defensively, deflected another. He managed a straight-arm punch that knocked the V'rahn back. The V'rahn stumbled, almost fell, but righted itself. It looked like hell, blasted and bloody. In its hands was the haft of a broken shock rod.

"You've ruined everything!" The V'rahn shrieked, brought the rod down again, broke Crichton's left forearm and then attacked him in a frenzy, smashing the rod down and laying open the side of Crichton's head.

He fumbled around, brought the other end over, found the switch. The shock rod hummed ominously. Without hesitation, the V'rahn rammed it against the side of Crichton's head and the human croaked and fell all the way to the floor. A louder scream echoed his choked grunt of pain and Rial stepped out, yelled at the V'rahn to stop it. Crichton was barely conscious, but he heard her, and he heard the V'rahn's strangled "_Kill you!_" and felt him step over to go after her.

Crichton grabbed the frothing, maddened V'rahn in a death grip. He could barely see, barely hear, but he would not allow it to end this way.

Rial would _live_. Her daughters would live and he would see to it. Talyn would live and Moya would be better and safer. The monster would win, but that was okay. He would die, but that was okay too.

_A deal was a deal._

When the V'rahn roared and began to repeatedly bring the shock rod down on his head, Crichton didn't even feel it – only a warm pressure inside his skull and a blue light that distracted him, gently and lovingly called his name. His grip on the V'rahn didn't loosen. He didn't see Miriya and Koiban step out of the smoke, nor see Miriya kill the V'rahn with an expert shot to the head. He was too busy falling slowly down, dragging the dead with him, down into a comforting blackness that rose to meet him like the arms of a welcoming lover.

He smelled grass and wind and wondered if death had finally noticed him, prepared to thank it if it had.

* * *

**THEY MANAGED TO STEAL A PRISON TRANSPORT SHIP JUST OUTSIDE THE PRISON.**

It was under fire all the way into orbit.

They made it though - Strad'ail'leevis' ships stopped at their system's boundaries. _No War Among Warlords_, ran the Code.

Onboard, Koiban fought with the controls and communications and Miriya cradled the smashed and ruined head of John Crichton in her lap and felt things snapping on and off and off and on unexpectedly in her chest as hot blood ran over her hands.

Even with the supplies Koiban could find, it just held things together, but it really wasn't enough. The Interion Medic yelled at the controls as he attempted to go faster and Miriya felt Crichton's life tick down with every drop of bright red that ran through her fingers.

Rial stared down at the stricken man and shook her head. He was not one of her husband's men. He was nothing more, really, than a mercenary, an outlaw… yet… she could not understand it. They had had to almost break his fingers to get him to release the corpse of the V'rahn. He had, however, saved her and her children, at considerable cost to himself, and he would receive the best of everything, whatever he needed. That, at least, she could do for him.

Miriya breathed hard and held on to him tightly. She looked over at Rial and her daughters and shook her head. They meant nothing to him. They _couldn't_ have. Why did he do it? Pride? Some crazy Human impulse? A frelling deathwish?

_What!_

Even as she asked herself the question, Miriya saw his eyes flutter and heard the breath rattle in his throat.

Crichton died in her hands and she yelled at Koiban to go even faster, completely rattled by the smile on John's face.


	5. END

**HE WAS DEAD.**

He knew that. It was the only thing that made sense.

He expected oblivion to be different, though. He had no soul. Being only Kaarvok's copied Creature, a quick and empty death and a sharp shunt into nothingness should have been all there was to it.

He stood on a wide plain, dark grass at his feet, stars over his head, a thick ribbon of them dazzling his eyes, making him remember why space had always pulled at him so hard and why he'd always been so happy to let it. Hanging in the sky was a large orange moon, one that had been pummeled hard by meteors. Warm, scented wind moaned and whispered around him. If this were hell instead of limbo, it was vacant – and not too bad, all things considered.

He turned slowly around, looking for some structure or landmark, half-expecting a castle in the distance or some gnarled tower with a single light in the single window way up top.

Only wide, dark plain before him, in all directions. A few, broad-trunked trees with broad flat leaves.

"Are we dead?" Harvey asked him.

"_I'm_ dead," Crichton corrected him. "_You_ were never really alive."

"That's rather harsh, John."

"Bite me." Crichton sighed. "It figured you wouldn't even let me expire in peace. What _is_ it with you, anyway?"

Harvey wandered away, looked around, wandered back.

"Not very inspiring," he said of the local landscape. "This has nothing to do with me, John. Oddly enough, " he added, pointing behind Crichton. "I don't think it has much to do with _you_, either."

Crichton turned to look where Harvey was pointing, and he was looking at the figure for a while before he realized that it was a person at all. The wind changed direction and he could suddenly smell a subtle scent, spices and vanilla and musk blended together, and he knew _that_ Scent like he knew his own, had smelled it in his dreams every night and pretended it was something else. It hurt less that way.

_What the frell was _she _doing in Hell? _He glanced back, but Harvey was gone.

"I'm sorry," she murmured softly, in that smooth contralto of hers. It was followed by a short sigh. "Things haven't exactly gone the way I'd hoped."

He shook his head in wonder. Okay, so he _was_ in hell and _this_ was his torment? There were worse things, but not by much.

"Hope is for poets and priests." He told her dryly, with only a hint of bitter sarcasm. It made no difference what he said. He was dead - who gave a damn? She wasn't really anywhere near here. It was just the dying crackle of his synapses screwing with him. He was beyond any stupid hopes now.

"I can't believe _you_ would ever say such a thing," she said.

"You have me confused with someone else." He told her. He had hoped it would have been Scorpius sent to torment him – he could spit in his face forever. Two soulless monsters each others' torture.

It so frelling _figured_. He didn't know what he'd done to make the universe utterly despise him so thoroughly, but despise him it so obviously did.

She blinked, as if she only now recognized him.

"It's… _you_," she said, the realization dawning on her. He watched the horror crawl up her face. Far from hurting his feelings, that look only hardened him.

"I didn't mean…" She stammered.

"Some things are inevitable." He told her coldly.

"I should have stayed." She said, walking toward him. "But I couldn't. I had to go with him."

He backed away. He didn't trust himself to know what to do if she tried to touch him. "You have the right to try a normal life."

"What about you?" She asks. He almost laughs. It's a little late to give a damn about him. He shrugs, walks away from her.

"I'm not him."

"Why do you believe that?" She asks, follows him, sticking the knife in, twisting it.

He shook his head. He stops, looks at her.

"I'm not. You decided."

"Are you sure?" Those liquid grey eyes of hers stare at him. He feels their pull, like a physical thing. Despite everything, he knows that whatever it was that fashioned men - fate, evolution, some capricious god - he had been designed _for_ her – and her alone. Every borrowed cell knew it, but it made no difference.

A man was more than his cells.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters." She says, with a sure and steady conviction. "You know I love you."

"Not me, Aeryn. Never me."

Another sigh from her, and she turns away, puts her back to him.

"One in two places."

He doesn't know what she means, just stands there and waits, wonders at her, wonders what she will say next, fascinated by this new thing, her openness. Almost sad that he had to die to finally see it. Inexplicably, he remembers that time on the Ancient-created Earth, the only time that feels real to him, _as if he were real_ – when _John_ had been blessed by her, by her sweet lips and perfect strong body, the privilege of touching that cool smooth skin, of feeling that exquisite combination of firm/softness of her, and through the memory feels his hands twitch and his borrowed heart almost beat. Something crackles along his nerves, and he fights it down, curses his body's false memories, furious over their temerity.

That was not him, and he must never pretend it was, nor allow others to delude him into thinking it so.

"Go away, Aeryn. Go back to him and forget me." _Just let me die in peace._

"I already have." she says, and vanishes.

Darkness crashes down.

* * *

**INTERLUDE**

**"YOU'RE IN THE WRONG PLACE."**

She turned with a sudden jerk, going into a defensive posture. She had been walking through a broad field lit by pale orange moonlight, a planet she remembered seeing once, long ago. She stopped. To her right on a large boulder, sat a man garbed in black Peacekeeper leather, forearms resting on his knees. His voice was a gravelly growl, but it sounded familiar. His face was shrouded in shadow, but she could smell him, knew him like she knew herself.

"Oh, _John_ – you startled me."

"I didn't expect you'd remember _me_." The voice was harder than she remembered, deeper than she knew, colder than it ever should have been. "Not John."

A ghostly face suddenly appeared at his shoulder, and to her horror, the hated cadences of Scorpius whispered through the warm night air.

"Come, Crichton – don't do this to yourself. Don't let her torture you so. Look at her… _yes…_ beautiful and cold. Always cold – _until_ she left you behind on Moya, of course." Harvey sneered at her, more a snarl.

"Go away, Harvey." Deadly cold. Flat. _Harvey? The Neural Clone? _The chalky face drew back, vanished, but the voice ghosted back.

"Left you to bear the pain, the scars, left you behind, left you to _die_ so she could have _him._"

Aeryn stepped back, aghast.

"No! It wasn't like that…"

She could see one icy blue eye glare back at her.

"Is he wrong?"

"_Yes!_" she said emphatically, meaning it with everything she had.

"He's not wrong." He told her. She saw him rise. It hit her in the chest like a fist, but it wasn't an accusation.

"He's _wrong_. You have to believe that."

"Nothing to believe_._" The air was suddenly chilled, cold, the cold inside a crypt.

A sudden realization grew in her – as if from nowhere.

She was a million lifetimes away.

"You could die." She told him, not knowing from whence it had come. The idea of John Crichton dying… unthinkable.

He was walking away.

"What are you trying to accomplish?" She demanded. He paused, only for a moment. He was drawing back into the shadow, away from her.

"I never thought – I _don't_ think of you as a copy."

The shadows enveloped him, caressed him as if he were one of their own.

"Goodbye." He said, and it sounded as if it had come a long way, was as final as the fall of the headsman's axe.

"This is a mistake. Coming here was a mistake."

One blue eye turned back out to her, bright and cold in that darkness. He never spoke again.

"It was a mistake."

The shadows reared at her.

"Don't do it."

She took a few steps after him, and the shadows seemed to solidify, stopped her as effectively as if they were plasteel.

"Don't die!" She shouted, desperate. She pounded on the black wall. "_Don't die!_"

The wall suddenly shattered, and she fell forward. He was gone, as if he'd never been there. The shadows before her were a solid wall of black, sliding away, following him, falling like heavy rain.

"_Don't die for me!_" She screamed into that blackness – a scream that rose and rose until all she could hear –

…was the sound of a siren outside, it's looping shriek washing past her window, red and blue light splashing on the walls. Aeryn Sun wearily looked at the clock on her bedside table, sighed when she saw it was 4:15 AM, far too early for this dren, then down at the man sleeping soundly beside her. Today he would be leaving, to work for his government, Earth's New Hero. They would be separated, and she did not know for how long. They had been told "not long", but she was suspicious of the government's word. She sighed, lay back down. She felt as if the vestiges of a dream were swirling deep down in her head, and it unsettled her. Something was very wrong, something that concerned John, but she could not pinpoint just how, or what. John sighed, did not awaken. She looked at him carefully, but nothing seemed amiss, his sleep untroubled. It was just the upcoming separation, the stresses she would no doubt encounter, the endless stupidities and frustrations dealing with bureaucrats and politicians and secrecy and silly human traditions and conventions. She didn't doubt it would all be uphill.

Sleep came back for her, and she yawned, closed her eyes.

_Everything will work out,_ she thought, sleep claiming her. Unbidden, the thought followed: _It has to - I've given up a lot._

The siren had long gone by, and the silence lingered, deepened.

_You will remember, _a voice seemed to say in the silence of the room, just the air moving. _You must._

If Aeryn heard it, she gave no sign.

**INTERLUDE ENDS**

* * *

**CRICHTON AWOKE, HAZY, DISORIENTED, FEELING LIKE HE'D JUST SPENT A MONTH SERIOUSLY DRUNK.**

His head hurt, a _lot_, and he could only see out of his right eye. He reached up, felt a thick swath of bandages around his head, down half his face, wrapping around his head and throat. He had a cast on his left arm, as well. He put his hand down, looked around. He was in a very large, very clean room, white walls, white ceiling, antiseptic smell. Around him were darkened windows filled with serious equipment and blue-coated techs.

_This a hospital? How bad was I hit? _He felt the bandages on his face again. _Hell, bad enough, apparently._

"He's awake!" he heard a familiar voice chirp, and the welcome face of his favorite Nebari came into view.

"Pip…" he croaked. Damn. He sounded _terrible_.

"It's okay," she said, bouncing up to the bed, gently laying a hand on the un-bandaged side of his face. "You're okay. Don't try to talk too much." She smiled a huge smile, leaned in, kissed him on the nose.

"Where…?" he asked in his croak.

"On Abbanerex," she replied. "In their _executive_ hospital. Only the best. All expenses paid."

He heard other voices then, D'Argo's, Rygel's, Miriya's. D'Argo stepped up.

"John – how are you feeling?"

"Like… Command Carrier …parked itself on my …head." He told D'Argo. _Damn _– his voice was shot to _hell_.

Rygel laughed at him. "Well, you _look_ like dren."

"Thanks, Ryge." Crichton managed a crooked half-smile. "S'how I feel …so I'm at least …breaking even."

Miriya stepped up behind Chiana, who stepped out of the way.

"Rygel lied. Half of you is still pretty," she jibed.

D'Argo leaned over him. "You were set up, John. Vittiga arranged for the bounty hunters to follow you. We found him - he's dead. Someone killed him, by, of all things, poison on his _money_. No doubt what he'd been given to betray us."

"I'd say that was …ironic, but frell the …guy." Crichton said, with something that passed for a smile. D'Argo smiled back.

He touched his bandages again. "Moya? The kid?"

"They're good. Apparently hunters went after Crais too. He did well for himself, I hear. He was almost killed by a Commando but it worked out. He was wounded as well, but not nearly so bad. He was treated and released long ago."

"So… how bad off… am I?"

"Well, maybe you should ask Koiban." Chiana said from the foot of the bed. "He treated you."

Koiban nodded to Crichton.

"You did this?" Crichton asked him.

"Yes. The physicians on this station have little experience with Sebaceans – or, uh, Humans. I have had quite a bit – with Sebaceans, at any rate, so they asked me to do what I could. Your physiology is remarkably similar."

"What's the …verdict?"

"You will live, certainly. I'm afraid some of the damage you incurred I could not repair."

The others were suddenly looking a tad gloomy.

"Like?"

"You were rather severely injured, Mr. Crichton." Chiana leaned over, whispered something in his ear. "Apologies, _Commander_ Crichton. You were struck in the head repeatedly by an activated Shock Rod. It is, quite frankly, a miracle you were revived. I rebuilt the left side of your skull, but I could not save your eye. That organ was completely ruined,"

"My eye …is _gone_?" Crichton groaned. "_Damn!_" Half-blind. It just got better and better. But _half_ his head had been _rebuilt? _ Maybe the eye was the least of his worries.

"Fortunately, and this is in my estimation another minor miracle, none of the major arteries to your brain were damaged. Your voice will improve in time. You inhaled some rather harsh chemicals."

"You mean …I'm gonna sound …like _this_ …forever?" His voice was a harsh, croaking buzz.

Koiban shook his head.

"No – in time, it will heal, but the chemicals have thickened your vocal cords. I've repaired your lungs. I'm afraid we won't know for sure until it heals completely. It was a uncertain thing for quite a while. You were clinically deceased for quite some time. We managed to steal a prison ship and make it out of the system. We were immediately picked up by D'Strand'm'tah's ships, and you were put directly into stasis. Stasis saved you, to be entirely truthful. My apologies for your disfigurement. I repaired what I could, but I am not a cosmetic surgeon."

Crichton put is head back, sighed. _Dead, too. Sure, why not? It had been heading that way, anyway._

"Hey, you …did a helluva job …anyway. Thanks. Thanks, everybody." He looked back up. "How long …was I out?"

"Almost a full monen," D'Argo informed him. "D'Strand'm'tah's family is safe. He was _extremely_ grateful. He wants to see you when you're feeling better."

Crichton waved that off.

"Talyn?" He asked, wincing as he re-adjusted himself on the bed.

"Talyn has had his neural reconstruction completed. The techs are very optimistic. He's already showing signs of excellent reconnection, although he's still unconscious, and will be, for some time yet."

"That's great. …Moya?"

"Her upgrades went very well, John," Miriya stepped back up. "Both she and Talyn needs time – he for integration of his new neural pathways. You'll probably be here for at least another half-a-monen – probably more."

Crichton put his head back down. He felt immensely weary. Life was heavy on him, but it still felt sweet. He'd done what he'd meant to do. He'd fulfilled his obligations. Good. _The sky's the limit now._

"Figures. I appreciate …everything, guys. I'm just …really tired."

D'Argo told him. "We've got everything under control. You rest." He waved the others out. "Let's let John get some more sleep."

They filed out.

"Thanks, D."

"Just rest, my friend." He put a large hand gently on his shoulder for a moment, then he too left. Someone didn't. He cracked open his eye, saw Miriya still standing there.

"What?" he asked her. His voice was now just a grating buzz.

She looked a bit chagrined.

"Oh, nothing. I'm just glad you're all right." She smiled a lop-sided smile. "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen."

She meant what he'd done on Morning's Bounty.

"It was stupid." He shook his head. "I'm down an eye."

"Eyes can be replaced or re-grown, John." She paused. "Why'd you do it?" It had taken her a long time to wash his blood off her hands, arms, shirt. It had stopped her, made her think, shocked her at the price he'd paid just to get a couple of Leviathans fixed. The stories were really true – he _was_ insane – and _amazing_.

"Don't know." He smiled. "Just pissed off."

"Oh."

He closed his eye, felt _heavy_. He opened it after she'd been silent for a few long moments.

"What now?"

Miriya looked a little embarrassed.

"It's just a little strange for me."

"What is?" He closed his eye again. His eyelid was made out of lead, and gravity was a dozen times its normal strength just then. He was tired of questions and their answers and their repercussions.

"Caring about someone." She said, softer. "So easily, so quickly." If he was surprised, she was moreso.

He sighed.

"I'm a hopeless case, Miriya."

He felt her hand gently touch his face, soft lips touched his, followed by a little laugh.

"Well, I don't want your babies or anything."

He coughed a chuckle, pried his eye again, looked into two sparkling violet ones.

"Miriya… I'm not your type."

She put a finger on his lips, smiled a crooked smile, one he wasn't sure was cynical or just rueful.

"I know."

She leaned back in, said softly, as if she were telling him a secret no one else could hear,

"I'm not offering to take anyone's place, John. I wouldn't want to, anyway."

_You couldn't, _he thought without rancor, nodded slightly, let her go on.

"Everything's temporary," she went on, and it sounded like something she'd believed for a long time. "I don't try to buy what I can never own, and I never take things for granted." She paused, seemed to look inward for a moment. "There are times I wished it wasn't true, but everything _is_ temporary – and I can live with that."

She smiled that wide smile of hers, and he felt it's power perk him up, just a little. _It was one of her weapons_, he told himself without resentment - and a damn fine one at that.

"But, there's …something… about you, and I can't help liking you, and I rather like a few things you can _do_. No conditions. Just you and me and some time together, if you want, and we'll have no regrets."

"Regrets. Yeah." He thought about it for a bit. "I can do that. It's only time." He was fading fast, she noticed. She reached over to a table near him, dropped a silver object on it. He recognized it.

It was Iskijji's mask. Inside it were three silver quills.

"These were in your pocket." Miriya said, holding it up. "Three masks and these. I didn't know what they were, but you obviously thought they were important." She picked up a quill, turned it in the light, put it back in the mask. "There was some dren about rules on the station about 'trophies' or some nonsense and the 'drawing of further trouble', but I put an end to that."

He reached for it, and Miriya dropped the mask in his hand. He looked at it a few moments, at the Barbs, remembering what Iskijji had said, eye tracing the fine lines on it, then handed the barbs back. Miriya put them back on the table. The mask he dropped down to his chest, and he put a hand over it, held it there.

He nodded slightly to her voice echoing suddenly in his head.

_Yeah, I'll remember._

"It is important."

Miriya waited, then smiled, knew he wasn't going to explain it, hesitated – unsure - kissed him one last time, left.

Crichton closed his eye, sighed, the sigh travelling all the way down to his feet and back again.

_Alive – messed up, but alive. It doesn't matter. I'm almost done. Endure. Choose. Die - if you must - for a reason. _

Out here, that was probably the best for which he could hope.

Everything was temporary. Even life itself.

He could live with that. Didn't have a helluva lot of choice in the matter.

Sleep dropped him into blissful unconsciousness, and this time, he didn't dream.

* * *

_NEXT TIME ON _

_FARSCAPE - FREEBOOTER:_

LOOSE ENDS – PASTS DUE


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